


Facing the Inevitable

by LollipopCop



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary gets her comeuppance, Mary is Not Nice, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Pining Sherlock, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Sherlock is soft with the baby, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6731893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollipopCop/pseuds/LollipopCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary has the baby, and Sherlock is more uncertain than ever of the future of his relationship with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THIS FIRST.  
> The scenario of the first chapter of this story is based on speculation from pictures taken from season 4 filming. It may turn out I (and many others) completely misinterpreted some pictures, but it's fan fiction, right? 
> 
> I just REALLY needed some pining!Sherlock after seeing the baby on set. I need to write out how I think they could still get together with a baby. This idea would not leave me alone in school all day!
> 
> ONE more thing: there's some mention of blood and childbirth, but it's really not that much.

There was a hard lump in Sherlock’s throat which he could not swallow. He sat in a chair outside of the hospital room, alone, sitting up straight as a rod. His tightly clasped hands shook. _This is actually happening. This is actually happening. This is actually happening._

He was numb, and although the hospital was bustling around him, he could only hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He thought something would have come up, something that would have prevented the baby from being born. He never wished harm on John’s child, no, but he just thought _something_ would have happened that would have allowed John to be his again, back at Baker Street. He was foolish to entertain such illogical hope. Babies had to be born. It was simple biology. It had to happen sometime. He knew this since he deduced the pregnancy at the wedding reception, and yet he was not prepared for it.

Mary and the baby were currently being evaluated in the room behind him, and John, being the father, was permitted to be in the room with them. Sherlock had to wait outside. This whole thing was partly Sherlock’s fault, because he hadn’t driven to the hospital in time, and Mary gave birth in the backseat her and John’s car. Sherlock had kept his eyes straight ahead the whole time, Mary’s cries of pain and exertion mixing with the infant's wails.

“God damn it, Sherlock, drive!” John had yelled at him.

Sherlock did, but he couldn’t control the bloody traffic. He knew why John was yelling at him, but it just twisted the knife deeper.

Sherlock couldn’t look back at the baby being born. He wasn't necessarily squeamish, but he had zero desire to see the living proof of John and Mary’s partnership come into this world (or see Mary’s genitalia, for that matter). He had smelled the blood and afterbirth, and for a moment, thought he was going to be sick. But, he had a duty, so he kept driving them to the hospital, clenched jaw trembling as he heard John shushing and cooing at the infant.

That was thirty minutes ago, and Sherlock was still shaking. The car was in the parking lot, the blood probably staining the seats. He'd have to do something about that. Then again, it wasn’t his car, but it was his fault she hadn’t given birth at the hospital.

He released a quivering sigh. He remembered how John instantly switched into doctor mode, and calmly saw Mary through the delivery. He was always reliable in a crisis; it was one of the things Sherlock loved most about him. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek hard. He couldn’t think about loving John now. He was barely keeping everything together as it was. He needed something to distract him, even if it was just for a moment. He took out his phone and slowly typed a text message:

_John’s baby has been born. SH_

He couldn’t think of the baby as Mary’s, which was stupid, because she had given birth less right behind him, but he just couldn't. Something in the back of his mind prevented him from doing it. When he was high on the plane, trying to figure out what happened with Moriarty, he had completely forgotten she was pregnant. He had been so deep in denial, it was pathetic.

He sent the message to Lestrade.

Lestrade texted him back: **REALLY? That's great! Do they want visitors yet?**

Sherlock wished he shared Lestrade's enthusiasm. He gave him the hospital name and room number, although he didn’t know if John and Mary wanted any visitors besides Sherlock at the moment. Oh well. He needed someone else there to alleviate the tension.

The door opened and Sherlock whipped his head around. The doctor and a couple nurses walked out, and the doctor turned to Sherlock.

“Are you with the Watsons?”

Sherlock nodded silently.

The doctor was smiling. “Mom and baby are both fine--just a bit tired. You can go see them now.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod, but his legs refused to move. The doctor and nurses walked away, and he sat there, wondering if he should go in or make some excuse to go home.

He didn’t have time to make up his mind.

The door opened again. It was John, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Hey," he said, sounding tired. "The doctor said they're both okay. She's perfectly healthy."

"That's good," Sherlock said woodenly, deciding not to say the doctor told him the same thing less than a minute before. He noticed that John didn’t sound thrilled, either, but he wouldn't comment on it. It was good news, though. He couldn’t wish harm on an infant. It wasn’t her fault her mother tried to kill him.

John licked his lips, seeming unsure of himself. “Want to come see her? She’s a lot cuter without all the blood.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched upwards despite himself. “All right.” He stood up, legs stiff from being cramped in the small chair, and followed John into the room. He couldn’t avoid seeing the child forever. Might as well get the first meeting over with.

Mary was in the bed with the baby in her arms. Despite looking utterly exhausted, she was awake, watching Sherlock carefully with her large, unblinking eyes. She looked like a cougar protecting its young, ready to pounce at the first sign of a threat. Sherlock’s old bullet wound ached and he hated it, hated feeling even the slightest bit intimidated by her.

“There you are,” she said with a small, fake smile. Her hold on the child tightened ever so slightly.

Sherlock’s eyelid nearly twitched. “Here I am,” he said weakly, making John laugh.

Mary’s eyes narrowed, but Sherlock paid her no mind. The baby was wrapped in pink blankets, and his eyes instantly snapped to her. There she was: the nail in the coffin. The final step in John becoming a domestic, family man. Sherlock would have never guessed John wanted this life, but there they were (did John want this?). The baby was quiet, probably sleeping, and very small. Sherlock actually couldn’t remember the last time he saw an infant. Were they always this small?

John chuckled. “She’s a baby, Sherlock. You don’t have to look at her like she’s an alien.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Mary nearly cooed, and Sherlock never wanted her to use that tone of voice with him again. “You know he isn’t used to this sort of thing, John.” Her eyes sparkled, and she looked at Sherlock from under her light lashes. “He probably doesn’t know what to do.”

She had just given birth, and she still found the energy to get a dig at him. Of course. But then, Sherlock shouldn’t have expected any different. This was just another way for her to rub it in Sherlock’s face that she was a more suitable partner. She was good with kids, and Sherlock was not. At least, he didn’t think he was.

John’s left hand twitched by his side, and before Sherlock could say anything, he said, “I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of holding an infant, Mary.” He turned to Sherlock. “Want to hold her?”

A part of him really, really didn’t, but a larger part wanted to get on Mary’s nerves. “Certainly,” he said as enthusiastically as he could (which wasn’t very). John must have noticed, because he winced, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

Mary pursed her lips, and John went over to her, gently scooping the baby into his arms. “Hold your arms out,” he told Sherlock.

Sherlock did, and carefully accepted the child into his arms. He cradled her head on his forearm, and held her tiny body with his left hand. She practically fit in his _hand._ She was awake, to his surprise, looking up at him blearily. She had dark blue eyes, but most babies did, although they would probably stay blue considering her parents' eyes, and wisps of blonde hair were peeking out from under the pink hat provided by the hospital. She had light brown eyebrows, which gave her expression and distinguished her from other babies with pale features. Her tiny nose was turned up, like John’s (there goes any hope the baby wasn’t his), and her tiny fingers were clenching the blanket. He slowly and carefully maneuvered her so she was supported by his right arm, and he brought his other hand up to delicately touch her small fingers, and was fascinated by the softness of her skin. She made a tiny little sound in her throat, neither happy nor sad. Just a random baby sound. Did the sounds mean something? Sherlock was a genius and he knew it, but he felt horribly out of his depth. Detective work didn’t require him to care for children.

He realized he hadn’t said a word for awhile, so he looked up. John was looking at him, eyes bright and tender, and his lips were parted in a soft grin. The harsh lines that took hold of his face since Sherlock’s return were smoothed out, and he looked more content than he had in the past year and a half. Sherlock didn’t think John ever looked at him like that, actually, and his heart gave a hard _thump._

He swallowed, blinking. “John,” he breathed, but didn’t know what else to say. He looked down at her again, at her chubby cheeks and button nose, and Sherlock didn’t understand the warmth he felt. This child had no personality yet, so it didn’t make sense to Sherlock that he felt something for her, for this little person he didn’t know. “She’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

John’s grin widened. “Yeah? Yeah, she is. I’m glad you think so.” His voice was thick.

Sherlock smiled, too, until he felt Mary’s cold eyes on him. He looked at her, and her lips snapped back into a forced smile.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she? If you don’t mind, I’d like her back,” she held out her arms.

Sherlock’s smile vanished.

The beautiful look on John’s face vanished, too, and all the harsh lines came back as a deep frown formed. “Mary--”

“I _am_ the mother,” she said, as if they had forgotten.

“Sherlock can hold her,” John almost growled.

Sherlock was surprised by his tone, and subconsciously held the baby closer.

Mary glared at him. “I want to hold _our_ child.”

The emphasis on _our_ was a deliberate jab at Sherlock, and they all knew it.

“Mary--” John started.

The door opened and Lestrade burst in, holding a pink balloon and teddy bear. “Hey!” he greeted jovially.

John seemed pleasantly surprised to see him. “Hey,” he smiled. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Sherlock told me,” he said.

“Did he, now?” Mary's eyes shifted to Sherlock.

“Yeah,” he said, oblivious. “How do you feel?” he asked her.

“Oh, just tired,” Mary shrugged. “It could have been worse. It could have been better, too, if I’d actually given birth in a hospital.”

Lestrade’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Sherlock didn’t drive us in time and I gave birth in the backseat of our car,” she said pointedly.

Lestrade whistled, “Wow. You okay?”

“Yes, we’re all healthy, thankfully,” she said.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and the baby. “ _You’re_ holding her?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

John saved him by saying, “Yeah, he’s actually not too bad.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing. Sherlock was glad he had a firm hold on her, or he was pretty sure he would have dropped the baby.

He could sense Mary shooting daggers at him.

“I need a picture!” Lestrade said, putting down the stuffed toy on a nearby chair and letting the balloon float to the low ceiling.

John laughed, “Come on, Greg.”

“I’ve just got to capture this,” he insisted, getting his phone and holding it up to them.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. If he refused, he might hurt John’s feelings, but he was never one for pictures, and he must not have looked his best.

Lestrade said, “Smile!”

John kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for the picture, and Sherlock offered a small smile.

Lestrade snapped the picture. “Perfect,” he nodded, looking at it. “I’ll send it to you two later.” He turned to Mary. “I imagine you’re not up for a picture right now?”

“You’re correct,” she said dryly.

“Right.” He looked at the baby. “Can I see her?”

“Sure!” Mary said warmly.

Sherlock handed her to Lestrade. He wanted to go home.

Lestrade smiled at her. “She’s adorable. What’s her name?”

“We’re still discussing it,” John said.

“We’re still disagreeing on it,” Mary added.

John rolled his eyes. “We’ll decide soon.”

This felt too... _domestic._ Sherlock really wanted to go home. He felt bile swish around in his stomach.

“I think,” he spoke for the first time since Lestrade’s arrival, “I’m going to go home. You two are tired,” he looked at Mary, “and will surely get more visitors.”

“You don’t need to go,” John told him.

“John,” Mary chastised, “if Sherlock wants to go, let him go.”

Sherlock just nodded and looked at John. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I know,” John said, frowning. “You can come visit her anytime.”

That’s what it was now: Sherlock could visit John, but that was it. He was an outsider. Lestrade was looking at him, but Sherlock ignored him. He felt like he should say something to make it seem like he was okay with all of this.

“Let me know what you name her,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “We will.”

_We._

Sherlock buttoned up his coat. “I’ll leave you, then. Goodbye.”

They said goodbye to him, John looking disappointed, Lestrade looking confused, and Mary looking smug. Sherlock went home. He went straight upstairs. He couldn’t bear Mrs Hudson’s inevitable excitement over the baby yet. He’d tell her later.

He took off his coat and shoes and sat in his chair. It was dark in the flat, but he didn’t bother to turn on a light or start a fire. The moonlight coming from the window hit John’s empty chair.

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and hugged himself, his eyes stinging. The painful lump in his throat was back, and this time, he didn’t bother trying to swallow. He opened his mouth and a short sob came out, his chest contracting with a harsh breath. Hot tears blurred his vision and rolled down his face. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control. There was no use crying. It was all a done deal. John was living with his wife and child, and that was that.

He thought John’s wedding was the worst day of his life, but he had been sorely mistaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how long this will be.
> 
> As always, PLEASE tell me what you think. First chapters always make me nervous, and feedback is ALWAYS welcomed.


	2. Reconnecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get a few minutes alone, and it turns out John isn't very fond of his wife anymore...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments! I'm glad you're excited about this story, because so far, I like writing it.

Sherlock woke up when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He groaned in pain and opened his eyes. He had an awful crick in his neck, and his knees, still drawn up to his chest, were aching. He lifted his head and blinked slowly. He was still in his chair in the sitting room. He must have fallen asleep after staring into the darkness for hours. His stomach growled with hunger pangs. He slowly lowered his legs to the floor, hissing when his joints protested, and rubbed the back of his neck. He should have collapsed on his bed, or the sofa. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore. He sat up and stretched, spine popping, and remembered yesterday’s events. He sighed deeply, feeling weight press down on his chest again. He always got that feeling when he thought about John nowadays. He reached into his pocket for his phone and unlocked the touchscreen. 

It was Lestrade, who sent him the picture he took yesterday of Sherlock, John, and the baby. Sherlock took a deep breath and reluctantly opened the attachment. The picture was as awful as he anticipated.

John didn’t look bad--tired, yes, and a little stressed, but relatively happy with his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock looked awful. His lips were turned up in a weak attempt at a smile, which looked more like a grimace, and his eyes revealed everything. Maybe he it was more obvious to him because he knew his own feelings, but he didn’t look anything like a man happy for his best friend. He looked utterly miserable. He should have put his walls back up for the picture, but everything was overwhelming and his stupid heart got in the way. He looked utterly out of place with a baby in his arms, but with John’s hand squeezing his shoulder, they looked more...natural. Like--a couple. They looked like a couple, and with the baby they were a family. His stomach rolled (he should really eat something). People always suspected they were a couple since day one--was this what they saw? Mary would hate this picture. He hoped John would show it to her.

He thought of what it would be like if he, John, and the baby really were a family. He pictured himself romantically involved with John many times, but he never thought of taking care of a child. He pictured getting up in the morning, leaving John to sleep while he took the baby from her crib and fed her. He blinked. He didn’t know how to feel about that fantasy. It wasn’t what he imagined, and yet the thought wasn’t...entirely awful. He had no idea how it would work, though, with the cases. He shook his head. No point in thinking of the logistics, since it was never going to happen.

Lestrade typed a message to accompany the picture:  **Looking good! I might print this out and frame it up at the Yard!**

Sherlock’s chest was tight. 

_ Please don’t. SH _

Despite the ache it caused his heart, Sherlock saved the picture to his phone. It was one of the only pictures he had of them together, and might be the last picture of them with Mary for a long time. As long as no one knew he saved it, he should be fine.

Lestrade responded.  **Just kidding, Sherlock. Lighten up.**

Sherlock didn’t respond. Was Lestrade really that dense? Then again, considering that he didn’t pick up on any of the tension yesterday, perhaps he was. Sherlock looked at the time on his phone: 8:43. He really should tell Mrs. Hudson about the baby, if John didn’t already call her. He stood up and stumbled into the bathroom, limbs still stiff. He brushed his teeth and showered quickly. Mrs. Hudson would probably want him to go with her to the hospital, and he wasn’t going to show up in the clothes he wore the day before. John would notice. Mary would  _ definitely  _ notice.

Clean and dressed, he went to go downstairs, but stopped. John would want him to eat. He shoved a quick breakfast down his throat as quickly as possible (which made him feel queasy for a solid fifteen minutes), and left the flat. He knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

She opened it a few seconds later. “Good morning, Sherlock” she smiled warmly at him. “What do you need?”

“John’s baby is here,” he said blandly.

Mrs. Hudson practically squealed and clapped her hands together, her eyes lighting up. “Oh! Really? She’s been born?”

“Yes.”

Her smile was bright enough to ease his pain a little bit. He liked seeing her happy. “Oh, Sherlock! Did you just get a call?”

“She was born yesterday,” he told her.

She gasped, “Sherlock!” She lightly smacked his forearm. “Why didn’t you tell me before?!” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together.  _ I came home and sat in the dark in a fit of depression.  _ “It was a difficult delivery,” he said. “I didn’t think Mary would want any added stress.”

“Since when do you give a toss about Mary?” she asked bluntly.

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Was his hatred of her that obvious? “John wanted her to be comfortable,” he said quickly.

She looked unsatisfied with his answer, but dropped it. “Well, I want to see the baby. Will you go with me?”

“Sure,” he said dully.

“Good! What’s her name?”

“They haven’t decided yet.”

Mrs. Hudson made a thoughtful sound, but didn’t elaborate. “All right, give me a minute to freshen up,” she said, and disappeared into her flat.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Into battle. He could do this.

* * *

There were no other visitors when they arrived, and both John and Mary were awake. John was sitting in a chair by the bed and the baby was, once again, being held by Mary. Sherlock briefly wondered if Mary allowed John to hold her yet.

Mary smiled at Mrs. Hudson, “Hello!”

“Hello, you!” Mrs. Hudson beamed. 

John smiled, “Hey, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock.”

“Hello,” Sherlock greeted, hands folded behind his back.

Mary didn’t acknowledge him, which was fine with Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson pointed a finger at John, “Why didn’t you call me, young man?”

“I was a little busy,” John said dryly, but not unkindly. “I figured Sherlock would tell you.”

“He did, eventually.” She looked at the baby. “Can I see her?”

“Absolutely!” Mary said and held her up. Mary could be so kind to people she didn’t consider a threat.

Mrs. Hudson took the sleeping child and fawned over her, saying how beautiful she was and that she definitely had John’s nose, and how she would grow up into a fine young lady (an illogical statement to make about an infant barely a day old, Sherlock thought). Sherlock tuned her out and his attention shifted to John.

John looked like he barely slept at all. The bags under his eyes were darker and more pronounced than they were yesterday, and he had grey-blond stubble across his jaw. Sherlock liked him with stubble, but today, it made him looked exhausted and old. Sherlock noted that John was in the same clothes from yesterday. He must not have went home. He looked smaller, somehow.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson sounded like she was scolding him.

He looked up. “Yes?”

“What’s wrong with you, making a woman give birth in a car?” she frowned.

Sherlock’s fingers twitched behind his back. He had a feeling Mary would hold this over him for a very long time. “It wasn’t intentional, I assure you,” he said lowly, glancing over at Mary.

“He drove as fast as he could,” John stepped in. “Pretty sure he went over the speed limit, too. London traffic is hell.”

It was nice of John to defend him, even though the matter was trivial. 

The baby started fussing, so Mrs. Hudson rocked her. She looked at John and clicked her tongue. “John, you look absolutely knackered.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“He  _ is  _ tired,” Mary confirmed. “You’d think he was the one who gave birth.” She and Mrs. Hudson laughed, and Sherlock and John shared an uncomfortable gaze.

John stood up and stretched his arms over his head. His jumper rode up, revealing the thick blond hair that trailed from his navel to below his belt. Sherlock’s mouth was suddenly dry and he looked down at his feet. He hoped to god he wasn’t blushing, or that Mary noticed. 

“I think I need coffee,” John yawned. 

“The cafeteria probably has some,” Mrs. Hudson said.

John shook his head. “I left my wallet at home, and haven’t had time to go back to get it. I was planning on doing that soon.”

Sherlock saw an opportunity and took it. “I could pay for it.”

John turned to him. “You don’t have to--”

“John,” he cut in, “it’s just coffee. It’s fine,” he smiled.

John smiled, too. “Okay, yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll come with you.”

John looked at Mary and Mrs. Hudson. “You’ll be fine--?”

“John,” Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, “ of course we’ll be fine.” She then grinned. “Isn’t that sweet? Already he’s such a concerned father.”

“Yes,” Mary said simply, then fell silent.

Sherlock’s heart was leaping. He would actually get a few minutes with John, even if they couldn’t be alone. He would take anything he could get at this point. They left the room and he felt more at ease as soon as they shut the door, away from Mary’s hawk-like stare.

They walked in awkward silence. Sherlock tried to make small talk. “So...why haven’t you named her yet?”

It was the wrong thing to ask, because John’s frown-lines deepened. “We can’t agree on a name.”

“Not one?”

“Not yet,” he said in irritation. He sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes. “She’s making it as difficult as possible.”

_ Sounds like her.  _ “You’ll think of something.”

John sighed deeply. “I wanted to name her, but she won’t have any part of it. She’s...” He rubbed his eyes again. “God, I need to sleep.”

“Why didn’t you sleep?” Sherlock asked. “Those chairs aren’t comfortable, but you’re a soldier; you’ve slept in worse conditions.”

John snorted. “You don’t know the half of it.” His small smile faded and he looked straight ahead as he walked. “I guess I’m not used to this yet. I mean, how can I be, right? I don’t want to sleep and wake up and something’s happened to the baby.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say how unlikely that was since they were in a hospital and she was perfectly healthy, but then he thought of Mary. Was John worried about Mary, and didn’t want to admit it?

John stopped walking, and Sherlock did, too. They were standing in front of the elevator, in a less crowded area of the hospital. “You know, don’t you,” John stated.

“Know what?”

John put his hands in his pockets, looking away. “I don’t trust her. How could I?”

_ Then why did you go back to her?  _ And yet as soon as he thought that, Sherlock pictured John, forcing himself to stay awake all night long, watching over his infant in fear of his wife. John was always a caretaker. It was in his blood. “She wouldn’t hurt her,” Sherlock said softly, knowing he should tread lightly. “She cares about your child.”  _ Even if she only wants the child to keep you shackled to her. _

“I know,” John looked up at him. “I don’t think she would, either, as long as I’m--that’s not what I’m worried about.”

A beat of silence, and then Sherlock asked, “As long as you’re what?”

John shook his head. “Nothing.”

“John--”

“Nothing, Sherlock,” he said firmly.

He was lying, and it took every amount of willpower for Sherlock to drop the matter. “What’s bothering you, then?”

John swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m worried she’ll take her, or someone from her past will do something to hurt her.”

Sherlock understood immediately. “You think she’d leave?”

“It’s possible,” he said grimly. “We haven’t...We haven’t been getting along.”

_ Good,  _ Sherlock thought selfishly, and then mentally scolded himself. He kept quiet, waiting for John to continue.

John cleared his throat, looking out the large windows. “We’re at each other’s necks constantly. You had to have noticed,” he suddenly looked back at Sherlock, sounding like he was looking for validation. “You’re the most observant man on the planet.”

“I did notice yesterday,” Sherlock admitted, feeling slightly triumphant that the tension he picked up n yesterday wasn’t all in his head. “You two seemed...stressed.”

John smiled bitterly. “That’s an understatement. Sherlock--” He broke off. He swallowed. “Sherlock, she shot you.”

“I’m aware.” 

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sherlock, please.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

John looked at him for a long moment, eyes softening, and shook his head, rubbing his eyes again, his wedding ring shining in the sun coming through the window. 

It felt good to know John was upset about that, because it seemed like John didn’t  _ care,  _ and that hurt. That hurt badly. John did care, but apparently not enough to leave Mary. But then again, John feared for the safety and well-being of his child, barely a day old. John had a duty, and he wouldn’t back down. Sherlock knew that. He understood that. He still wanted John to come home with him. He wanted to talk about this more, find out what John truly thought of Mary. Something was wrong here, something beyond John and Mary simply not getting along for obvious reasons. John wasn’t telling him something. Mary was way too confident for Sherlock’s liking, and John seemed constantly on edge. He didn’t think Mary would leave without John knowing, though, because she was enjoying this way too much. She liked having control over people.

“I’m tired,” John said again.

Sherlock decided to back down. For now. He wanted to ease John’s pain as much as possible. He made a vow. Damn the vow he made to Mary. That vow was broken as soon as the bullet flew through the air. 

“You need to go to sleep,” Sherlock advised him. “Coffee will make you feel worse in the long-run.”

“I know,” John crossed his arms over his chest. “But Mary--”

“Is with Mrs. Hudson,” he reminded him. “She also gave birth yesterday. Do you think she’d attempt to get away from you in this state.”

A second passed and they both said, “Yes.”

They looked at each other and laughed, although the situation was far from funny. They laughed in relief that they could still laugh together.

Sherlock’s giggles died down and he looked around the empty hall and the row of chairs. Mrs. Hudson would probably be gushing over the baby and chatting with Mary for a little while longer, so Sherlock offered, “You could sleep for a few minutes in one of those chairs. Mrs. Hudson is with Mary, and I will be there. You can rest for a few moments.”

John looked conflicted. “We shouldn’t be away from the room for too long.”

“We won’t be,” Sherlock assured. “I’ll keep track of time. Mrs. Hudson won’t leave without me.”

John nodded in resignation. “Okay, fine.” He went over to a chair and slumped into it, head resting against the wall. “Just fifteen minutes, Sherlock.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Sherlock promised and sat down next to John, setting a timer on his phone for fifteen minutes.

John chuckled. “Of course you’re setting a bloody timer.”

“Well, I want to keep track of the time,” Sherlock pouted. “How else am I--?”

John closed his eyes, a smile still on his lips. “I’m just teasing you, Sherlock,” he murmured.

Sherlock’s cheeks felt warm, and he was grateful John’s eyes were closed. Fifteen minutes. John could be his for fifteen minutes. He was grateful it was relatively empty in the hallway (it was early and any potential visitors were most likely at work), and for Mrs. Hudson’s presence. 

He was right: John needed sleep. A minute and thirty seconds later, John was asleep, lips parted and breathing deeply.

Sherlock folded his hands on his lap and looked up at the ceiling. He thought of holding John as he slept, wrapping his arms around him, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady heat of his heart, and protecting him from the world. But, that was ridiculous. John didn’t need protecting. 

He nearly jumped when John’s cheek slumped down on his shoulder. Sherlock sighed shakily, resisting the urge to nestle his face in John’s hair. John was so close. It would be so easy. Sherlock’s face was on fire. There were times after a long case when they would fall asleep in the back of a cab, slumped on top of each other. He remembered the nights when he would awaken to John shaking his shoulder gently, smiling at him fondly and helping him out of the cab. 

_ C’mon, ya big lug,  _ John would often say.

Sherlock had loved those nights.

He cautiously turned his face and inhaled John’s hair. He wanted him so badly. He was tempted to kiss the top of John’s head. He resisted. He couldn’t. John was still with Mary. 

And yet, John was unhappy with her. Sherlock gulped. One press of the lips wouldn’t hurt, right? He gently puckered his lips and kissed the top his head. Sherlock closed his eyes. John’s hair was so soft. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at John’s face as best as he could from this angle. He breathed a sigh of relief--John didn’t wake up. Even in sleep, though, John’s face was troubled, a furrow between his brow. Sherlock hated how unhappy he was. He looked back up at the ceiling. Maybe John didn’t need protecting, but he needed help, and John hated accepting help.

Sherlock would not allow John to worry himself sick every day over the safety of his baby for the rest of his life. He needed to do something about Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'll wait to the end of the story to get our boys together. We'll see ;)  
> And I do know what the baby's name will be. That'll be revealed soon.


	3. Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are under some stress...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As school winds down for me, I should be able to update more often :)  
> I had a rough day, so I just wanted to thank you for reading this. Don't worry, nothing awful happened. Just some bullshit, really, but having people read and enjoy my writing does make me feel better. So thank you.

Fifteen minutes passed and the timer on Sherlock’s phone beeped. He silenced it and looked down at John. He was still asleep. He really didn’t want to wake him, but John would be irritated if he didn’t. Sherlock gently shrugged the shoulder John was using as a pillow, “John, wake up.”

John groaned, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Sherlock lowered his head. “John,” he said softly, lips brushing the top of his ear. “Come on.”

John opened his eyes, blinking against the bright fluorescent hospital lights. He realized he was on Sherlock and lifted his head. “Sorry,” he yawned.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said stiffly, his shoulder burning where John’s cheek had been. “You slept for fifteen minutes, like you asked.”

“Thanks,” he rubbed the back of his neck, letting out another big yawn.

Sherlock had a sudden, vivid image of being in bed, John curled up on his chest, yawning and rubbing his eyes as Sherlock held him. Sherlock felt his face erupt in flames.

John made a low, sleepy, confused sound, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock stood. “Let’s go.”

They went back to the hospital room to find Mary and Mrs. Hudson making small talk, the baby still safe and sound. John visibly relaxed.

“Where’s the coffee?” Mary asked.

“I didn’t get any,” John confessed. “I took a power nap instead.”

Her eyes narrowed on Sherlock.

He glared at her. _It’s because of you he’s like this._

Her eyes flickered back to Mrs. Hudson and she continued their innocuous conversation.

Sherlock hated her. He hated her for lying about who she was. He hated her for trying to kill him when he offered help. He hated her for readily putting John through the pain of grief again. He hated her for not apologizing to John. He hated her for acting as if she did nothing wrong. He hated her for making John anxious. He hated her for holding the child over John’s head. He hated her for the bags under John’s eyes. He hated her for the deep frown-lines on John’s face. He hated her for her smug smile. He hated her. He hated her. He hated her.

He hated himself for not seeing who she really was sooner and getting John out.

John nudged his shoulder. “You okay?”

Just as Sherlock started to smile at John’s concern, Mary chimed in, “Is _he_ okay?” She scoffed. “All he did was drive yesterday, why wouldn’t he be okay?” Her dark blue eyes settled on him, sparkling with mirth.

He heard the unspoken implication. Why wouldn’t he be okay, unless he cared too much? He hated her for knowing. She never brought it up directly, but she had to know. She knew on the wedding: _neither of us were the first, you know._

He hated her for rubbing it in. It was petty, cruel, and unnecessary.

Did she ever tell John, in that light, condescending tone of hers? _Oh, Sherlock? You’ve got to know he’s in love with you. Don’t be stupid, John! He’s lost without you._

His palms broke out in a clammy sweat, hands trembling, and he really didn’t feel okay now. He felt like he was going to vomit from keeping all of this in. The last day and a half was too much. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so overwhelmed.

“I need air,” he said and briskly left the room before John or Mrs. Hudson could stop him. He stalked down the hall and down the stairs, pushing the front doors and breathing in the cool air. He slumped against the wall and held his head in his hands. This baby spent fewer than twenty-four hours on this earth, and he was this close to breaking down. He was a shell of his former confident, closed-off self. He needed a smoke. No, something stronger. He needed cocaine. He forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly.

No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t disappoint John again. John was horrified when he nearly overdosed on the plane. He had paled when he read the list of the drugs Sherlock had taken. Using made John upset. He couldn’t do it. John needed him now. The feeling of nausea was passing. John needed his help. He had to keep himself well for John. He had a duty. He had made a vow. He could not fail John. He needed to ensure John’s happiness, and getting high would have the opposite effect. Plus, if Sherlock ever needed to watch the baby for whatever reason, John would most certainly not trust him with his baby while he was high, and Sherlock wouldn’t blame him. It was settled: he had to stay clean for John and his baby. It would be difficult, but necessary.

With a purpose set in stone, the swirling in his stomach ceased, and his hands stopped shaking.

His phone started vibrating in his pocket. Mycroft was calling him. He thought of not answering, but he may need his help for getting rid of Mary later. He would play nice for John.

He answered the phone. “Yes?”

“Don’t you even think about it,” Mycroft said sternly.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I can see you outside the hospital. Do _not_ start using again or I _will_ tell John,” he warned, the slightest hint of urgency in his voice.

Sherlock scowled and looked around. “Bloody cameras.” He couldn’t see anything, but there had to be one around there somewhere. His body language must have given him away.

“Do you understand, Sherlock?” Mycroft pressed on.

“Yes,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to. I have a mission.”

“You do? I didn’t think you were taking cases,” he said, sounding disappointed in himself for not knowing every detail of Sherlock’s life. Idiot.

“It’s not a case,” Sherlock clarified, “not really.” He looked around, but of course Mary wasn’t there; she was still in the room inside. He was getting paranoid. His hand balled into a fist. “I need...assistance.”

“Oh?” Mycroft’s arrogance was back.

“Mary,” Sherlock said simply.

“What has she done?”

“Nothing. Yet.”

“You fear she might?”

“John’s afraid,” he lowered his voice. “He fears for the well-being of his child. I think something is going on between them, but he won’t tell me.”

He heard Mycroft sigh. “As you know, Ms. Morstan has been able to evade the law in spite of her numerous crimes. She’s--good,” he admitted grudgingly. “You need proof of wrongdoing, Sherlock. It’s too late to get her for the shot.”

“I know that,” he growled, frustration growing.

“Then you will have to find another way to incarcerate her,” he said smoothly. “I will offer my assistance when there is enough hard proof--hard proof for the courts, that is--to put her away. John is wise in being wary, and I don’t doubt she will do something to hurt you or John in the near future, but mere suspicion is not enough to put her away for good, and you want her away for good. You know she would seek revenge if she were to be imprisoned and released, no matter how much time passes in between.”

He was right, of course. Even if they got Mary locked away for twenty years, as soon as they would release her, she would track him and John down.

“If she actually threatens someone,” Mycroft continued, “that’s a different situation altogether, but fear of potential threats does not hold up well in court for a life-sentence. Goodbye, Sherlock. Try to stay out of trouble, if not for your sake, then John’s. Call when something happens.” Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock sighed heavily. Mary knew shooting him was a one-shot deal with John (no pun intended). If she tried something like that again, John would surely leave her, and she couldn’t risk that. But then Sherlock thought of how much she seemed to utterly despise him. If he got too close to John, would she snap?

He put his phone away. He should really consider other options. John wouldn’t like Sherlock setting himself up as bait, and it could backfire. He barely survived the first time.

Stupid idea.

He went back into the hospital to fetch Mrs. Hudson. That was enough of the Watson family for today.

When he got upstairs, and John was waiting for him outside of the room.

“Sherlock,” he walked towards him, and they met halfway down the hall. “Are you okay? What happened back there?”

“I’m okay,” Sherlock said quietly. “Just a wave of nausea that has since passed.”

John wasn’t buying it. “I know you. You hide when you don’t feel well unless you’re at your breaking point. You don’t look sick to me, either.”

Damn John for being a doctor. Sherlock couldn’t tell the truth without spilling his heart out, but perhaps he could tell a fraction of the truth. He looked at John again, at the dark circles under his eyes. Maybe not. “I’m okay. Promise.”

John only sighed, shaking his head. “You always do this,” he muttered, walking away.

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, calling after him.

“This,” he waved his hand inarticulately between them, turning around.

“I don’t know what _this_ is,” Sherlock countered.

“You act like you’re okay and the next thing I know, you’re hopped up on drugs,” John whispered fiercely, mindful of the nurses and visitors down the hall. “It happened after my wedding and it happened after Magnussen.”

“Why does everyone think I’m on drugs today?” Sherlock snarled, defensiveness getting the better of him. He couldn’t stand people seeing him as an addict.

“Who else thinks so?” John asked, brows furrowing.

“My brother,” he grumbled. “He’s wrong, I assure you.”

“Your brother wasn’t wrong on the plane,” John shot back.

“We’re in a hospital; I can prove it right now. You don’t need to pity me as some poor soul who goes for the needle every time something bothers me,” he spat. He craved John’s compassion, but not his pity. Never his pity.

“I’m not pitying you,” John glared at him, stepping closer. “I’m just concerned because, you know, I’m your _friend_? I didn’t think you were high on the tarmac, either, but we both know how that went.”

“And I told you my reasons,” Sherlock shot daggers at him, genuinely beginning to get angry.

“And those reasons were bullshit!” John snapped. “You said it was to solve the Moriarty case? You didn’t know Moriarty ‘came back’ until after you got on the plane. That was bullshit and you know, it Sherlock. You still haven’t told me the truth. All this time, and you still lie to me.”

Sherlock swallowed. He was hurting John. He has done nothing but screw up since he jumped off St. Bart’s. He needed to re-direct the conversation. “What reason would I have to get high now?” He was challenging John, challenging him to speak the unspoken.

John backed down. He crossed his arms over his chest and puffed out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t just assume like that. You just worry me, that’s all.”

“Don’t you have enough to worry about?” Sherlock asked sourly.

John fixed him a hard stare.

“Sorry,” Sherlock looked down.

John shook his head and cleared his throat. “We’re both in foul moods. I don’t think I’m the only one who needs sleep.”

Thinking of his restless night in his chair, Sherlock admitted, “You’re right.”

“Don’t keep yourself from sleeping. You know that’s not good for you.”

“Sorry, Doctor,” he mumbled.

John looked torn between frowning and smiling. An uncomfortable silence grew.

“I think I’m going to take Mrs. Hudson home now,” Sherlock said glumly.

John nodded, a slither of disappointment sliding across his features. “Okay. She seems to like the baby.”

“What’s not to like?” The words left his mouth without thought.

He was glad, though, because John smiled warmly. “I never pegged you as someone who likes kids.”

He shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sure I do, entirely. I’m not fond of the ones who are covered in mucus and constantly scream for overpriced toys they do not need.”

John giggled. “Yeah, well, neither am I.”

“So far she is decidedly pleasant,” Sherlock said.

John cleared his throat. “I’m glad you like her,” he says, though there is an underlying tension Sherlock couldn’t quite identify.

Sherlock simply hums softly in his throat. “Yes, although I haven’t seen her cry yet, so my feelings may change.”

John laughed, “I’ll remember not to call you for babysitting, then.”

His smile vanished. “John,” he said carefully, “if you ever need anything, any kind of help with the baby, or, you know, don’t hesitate to call.”

John grinned weakly. “Yeah. I know. Thanks, Sherlock. You’re a good friend.”

They both cringed, and John cleared his throat, looking away.

The word _friend_ stabbed Sherlock’s chest. Was that all he was to John? But then he remembered a time when John didn’t even consider them friends:

_This is my friend, John Watson._

_‘Friend’?!_

_Colleague._

John had absolutely rushed to clarify to a complete stranger that, no, he was not friends with Sherlock Holmes, to Sebastian Wilkes’ immense satisfaction. But that was years ago, and John had since said they were best friends. They were, but they weren’t _just_ best friends. Best friends didn’t act like this. Sherlock didn’t really have any other best friend besides John, true, but he wasn’t stupid.

He couldn’t think about that now. He just nodded curtly and walked past John into Mary’s room. “Time to go, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, already?” she pouted. She carefully put the baby back in Mary’s arms. “She really is a sweet thing. I can’t believe you haven’t named her yet!”

“John’s being a bit difficult about it,” Mary said, cradling her child. “I was thinking of something very feminine, like Lily or Diana.”

“And I don’t like either of those,” said John, stepping into the room.

“You’ll surely sort it out,” Mrs. Hudson waved her hand. “It’s better to think hard on it then name her something you don’t like.”

They said goodbye and rode home in a taxi.

Sherlock felt Mrs. Hudson’s eyes on him, and felt a Talk coming.

“Sherlock--”

“Don’t,” he said shortly. He kept his eyes fixed on the window.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” she protested.

“Whatever it is, don’t.”

“Really, Sherlock--”

“Mrs. Hudson,” he closed his eyes, “please.”

“What’s going on between you and John?” she asked bluntly.

He opened his eyes, looking at her through the reflection in the window. “What part of ‘don’t’ do you not understand? Nothing is going on between us.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

He pressed his lips together. Did everyone know but John? Did everyone on this damned planet know his heart but the man he was in love with? “There’s nothing.” He had a feeling she wasn’t going to leave this alone, so he said, “It’s too late to do anything.”

“Is it?” she asked wistfully.

“Yes,” he said firmly. He finally turned to her. “He’s married with a newborn, in case you haven’t noticed. He will stay with Mary because for the sake of his offspring.”

“Parents get divorced all of the time, especially in this day and age.”

He looked out the window again. “Please, Mrs. Hudson. It’s not going to happen, especially not with the baby so young and dependent.”

“When she’s older--”

“That could be years from now,” he cut her off.

She sighed. “Mary did nothing but complain about John the entire time,” Mrs. Hudson said suddenly.

His head whipped around. “What?”

“Oh, yes,” she said casually. “She said how John wasn’t a supportive husband during the last days of her pregnancy, and how she’s going to have to do all of the work with the baby because she can’t rely on John.”

“That’s not true!” Sherlock rushed to John’s defense. “John will be an _excellent_ father.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Mrs. Hudson said calmly. “I can’t imagine her being a good mother, between you and me.”

“That’s an understatement,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, his blood boiling. How _dare_ Mary act as if she got the short end of the stick in her marriage. She was the one who did nothing but lie and manipulate her spouse! _She_ was the psychopath in the relationship. Sherlock wondered for the billionth time what her relationship with John was like behind closed doors. It couldn’t have been good. A disturbing thought popped into his head: if this was how she treated a grown man, how would she treat a vulnerable child? Chills slivered down his spine. At John’s wedding reception, Sherlock made a vow to protect all three of them. He obviously would not protect Mary from anything anymore, but he vowed to protect the child. If she hurt her...

His fingers were balled so tightly into fists that they ached. “She’s getting cocky,” he said under his breath. “She thinks she has John permanently.”

“Which she may not,” Mrs. Hudson added. “That’s what I was trying to say.”

“If John heard her say that, he would snap on her,” he said.

“I agree. So there’s hope, right?”

He buried his face into his scarf. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Even on the outside chance of John leaving Mary, that did not mean he would come running into Sherlock’s arms. He couldn’t get his hopes up. But, Mary was making a huge mistake. John was an intelligent man. The more confident she became, the harder she would fall. There was something going on between them Sherlock was not privy to, but she would not have control over John forever. He wouldn’t let her, and perhaps John wouldn’t let her, either.

As the cab pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock felt a little better about the situation. They would get Mary out of the picture somehow. He just had to play the waiting game. He just hoped John and the baby would not get hurt in the process.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm debating whether or not this will become parentlock. I never plan my stories, honestly. I just write whatever feels the most natural for the story progression.  
> I'll decide soon enough.


	4. Visiting the Watsons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds an excuse to check on John and the baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you guys for the amount of kudos you gave the last chapter! And thank you for commenting about parentlock in this story. I have a pretty good idea where this is going now ;)  
> GET READY FOR SAD WANKING

A couple days later, Sherlock got a text from John:

**Mary and the baby were discharged, so we’re home now. Just letting you know. -J**

Sherlock replied:

_Thank you for the update. SH_

His message didn’t have a shred of sarcasm--he was really glad John let him know they were okay. But, at the same time, Sherlock felt anxious. The hospital kept Mary in line, but now that she was home, in her own territory, she was free to do as she pleased. He wanted to text John and ask what Mary was doing, but he didn’t know if she read their messages. He wouldn’t put it past her. Mary had to know he hated her, but did she know he wanted to remove her from John’s life permanently? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t going to make it obvious, though. He put his phone away and curled up on the sofa. This was the official beginning to John’s life with the baby and Mary. Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh.

That night, he had a dream.

The dream started out with John in Baker Street, just the two of them, no Mary, no baby, laughing together on the couch. Then, John had a filthy smirk and leaned forward, crowding Sherlock’s personal space, and he kissed him. Suddenly and in the nonsensical way dreams work, they were both naked, humping each other on the sofa, John on top of him, his wet cock thrusting against Sherlock’s hip. Everything in the dream was quick and fuzzy. Dream-John was biting Sherlock’s neck and Dream-Sherlock was crying out, his cock hard and throbbing. His hand flew to his cock and squeezed, and John leaned down and brushed his lips against his ear.

“I love you,” Dream-John whispered. “I love you Sherlock, I always have. It’s never been Mary, never. Only you.”

“John!” he gasped.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He panted, staring confusedly with wide eyes at the ceiling.

He closed his eyes and groaned in frustration, realizing what happened.  His chest swelled with bitter disappointment. John didn’t really confess his love to him; it was all a figment of his imagination. He hadn’t had a dream like that in over a month. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. He was completely alone now in his dark room, and could not escape or repress his feelings now. He loved John. He loved him so much. But everything was so _wrong._ Tears stung his eyes and he turned on his side, drawing his knees up to his chest. A tear rolled down his temple into his hair, and to his disgust, his prick throbbed. Why couldn’t his body behave for once? He hated feeling aroused and dejected. It made him feel...lonely, reminded that there was no one there to care for him. He inhaled through his parted lips.

John confessing his love and having sex with him may have been a dream, but Sherlock’s erection was very much real. He sighed shakily and slipped his hand into his pants, cupping his cock. He pressed his lips together and breathed deeply through his nose. He hadn't done this in awhile, and he always felt weird touching himself. He only did this when his needs became too difficult to ignore.

Like tonight.

The images in the dream came back full force. He thought about what it would be like if John really did lose control and grind against him, dick wet, releasing deep moans out of his opened mouth.

Sherlock shivered and began stroking himself, closing his eyes and imaging John above him like in the dream. The pressure on his hardness made him moan weakly in his throat. The dream had truly left him _aching,_ the head of his penis already leaking, and he knew he wasn’t going to last long. He bucked his hips, thrusting into his hand, turning his head into his pillow and moaning louder.

His fantasy changed to John being curled behind him, bulge pressing against the cleft of his arse. Sherlock bit his pillow and thrust faster into the tunnel of his large hand, squeezing, the friction blissful and drawing out a low whine from his mouth. He let himself imagine it was John’s hand on him, pleasuring him from behind, thrusting against Sherlock, whispering filthy curses into his ear, and Sherlock felt his balls draw up. He threw his head back, hissing, and fucked his hand hard until come spurted from him, covering his hand, hitting the mattress.

He lay there for a long moment, breathing, eyes closed, cock softening. He let go of himself and took off his shirt, wiping his sticky hand on it and throwing the clothing on the floor. He rolled away from the wet spot on the mattress and stared at the wall. That was satisfying for all of five minutes, and yet he felt worse than before. John was in a bad situation, and there was Sherlock, masturbating and feeling sorry for himself. He was selfish. He should have waited for his erection to go away.

He tried to relax, and he hoped his stupid heart would let him enjoy a restful, dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

Over the next four days, Sherlock spent his time around the flat with his phone in his hands, waiting for John to text him again and fighting his feeling of an odd combination of frustration and panic. He had to remind himself that John was taking care of a newborn, and would not have a lot of time to stop what he was doing and text his pathetic, lonely friend. Still, Sherlock was on edge for days. He felt like a damned fool moping around the flat, but he couldn’t fully commit himself to taking cases when his mind was somewhere else. He occupied himself for a few hours with some cold cases which did not require him to leave the house, but even then, he was worrying about John. He called Mycroft and ordered his people to keep surveillance on Mary and John’s house. Mycroft obliged, but if something were to happen inside of the house, the cameras wouldn’t pick it up.

By the fifth day, Sherlock texted John six times, and received no answer. He started to panic, and he grabbed his coat and thundered down the steps. He was about to open the front door, but stopped. What the hell was he _doing?_ If everything were okay, he would look like an absolute idiot. He couldn’t burst in and say, _“Hello, John, I’m just here to make sure you and the baby are alive. You two are still breathing? Good. See you later.”_

He needed an excuse. He leaned against the wall and thought. If he came over with something for the baby, he would be welcomed. John might be suspicious, though. Sherlock never bought gifts for anyone. He could lie and say Mrs. Hudson bought it. He smiled. Yes, that could work. He went upstairs, grabbed his wallet, and took a cab to the nearest department store.

He spent a grand total of twenty-five minutes picking out a couple outfits for the baby, and Sherlock detested every last second of it. He felt awkward buying tiny pink outfits, and he hated the patronizing smile the cashier gave him. _It’s for John,_ he told himself repeatedly, and managed to get through it.

He took a cab to Mary’s house (it would never be John’s). It was Saturday, so John wasn’t working, but Sherlock didn’t know if Mary would be there. He hoped not.

He knocked on the door, and to his relief, John answer. _He’s okay._

John looked even more exhausted than he did a few days ago in the hospital, and his stubble had grown into five o’clock shadow. It...wasn’t a bad look on him, minus the dark circles under his eyes. He was in an old, white T-shirt with pajama pants and a dark blue dressing gown. John really must have been tired, then, because he hated not getting dressed.

John looked surprised and pleased to see him. “Sherlock,” he raised his eyebrows with a slight smile, “what are you doing here?”

He held up the bag in his hand. “Mrs. Hudson bought the baby a couple outfits, but her hip was bothering her, so she asked me to deliver them to you.”

John bought it. He grinned warmly, “Really? Ah, you’ll have to thank her for me. Come in.”

Sherlock didn’t like being in there. He didn’t like being in the place where John shared his life with Mary, with the reality of their partnership unavoidable and suffocating. The house was _boring,_ too, not half as interesting as the flat. It was generic as a house could be, from the furniture to the wallpaper, and that got under Sherlock’s skin. But, he went in.

He looked around. “Where’s Mary?”

John’s shoulders tensed. “Out,” he said. “She said she needed some alone time.”

“It hasn’t even been a week since the hospital,” Sherlock said, nose scrunching in confusion.

“Yeah, I know,” he said tiredly, not seeming up for the conversation. “She insisted. I don’t mind, though. It’s nice to get the house to myself. Well, except for the little one.”

Sherlock decided to drop it. He set the bag of clothes down on the coffee table. John took out the outfits and said they were great for her.

"It was kind of you to bring this here," John said lightly. 

Sherlock savored the compliment. He received them so rarely anymore. "Yes, well, I apologize for showing up without warning, but I tried to text you."

"You did? Sorry, I haven't looked at my phone much. I'm trying to catch up on sleep."

That made sense. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and realized, belatedly, that the baby was not in the room.

“Where’s the baby?” he asked.

“In her crib in our room. Actually,” he looked at the clock on the wall, “it’s time to feed her, so I’ve got to get her up anyway. Do me a favor and fetch her bottle from the fridge?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, wanting to help John as much as he possibly could.

“Ta,” he smiled and disappeared into the bedroom.

Sherlock got the bottle and followed him into John and Mary’s bedroom. He looked at the bed and his stomach rolled. There was the place Mary had the privilege to sleep beside John, to feel his hands on her. There was the place he held her and whispered sweet-nothings into her ear. There was the place the baby was conceived…

“Sherlock?”

He looked up.

“You okay?” John asked, rocking the whimpering infant.

“Absolutely,” he held out the bottle. “Why is she upset?”

“I think because she just woke up,” John explained, holding her with one arm and holding the bottle with the other. The baby started drinking, and Sherlock stared at them. John had a small grin on his lips, and he somehow seemed less tired when he looked at her, the lines on his face smoothing out. Sherlock could admit to himself that he didn’t think John wanted this, and maybe that was true at first, but now that the baby was here, he appeared to enjoy fatherhood.

“You’re happy,” Sherlock noted.

John looked up and cleared his throat. “Right now? Yeah, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Should he say this? “It’s just, when I told you Mary was pregnant, you didn’t seem--thrilled.”

He expected John to get irritated, but he snorted. “Well, it was a hell of a shock. That whole day was a bit overwhelming, getting married and an arrest and you…” he trailed off, cleared his throat, and looked back down at the baby.

“What about me?” Sherlock asked.

“You just deducing the pregnancy like it was nothing,” John said, but Sherlock knew that wasn’t what he was originally going to say. “I was scared, yeah, and I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure I could do it. But, I dunno, it’s all right. Granted, I’ve been a father for less than two weeks.”

“I’ve often heard infancy is the most difficult stage to get through,” he said.

“Hm, yeah, the crying for no reason at four in the morning isn’t fun.” He set the now-empty bottle down on the foot of the bed and held the baby over his shoulder, patting her back. “And it’ll be nice when she actually starts registering the things around her and when I could play with her.”

The baby released a tiny hiccup, and the sound made Sherlock’s chest twist in a weird way. “Why is her crib in here?” he asked.

“We’re still clearing out the storage room and moving stuff to the attic. I know she’ll have to learn to sleep in her own room, but I kinda don’t want to let her out of my sight for long.”

Sherlock knew why.

The doorbell rang.

“Damn,” John swore, “I forgot I ordered food. Shit, where’s my wallet?”

Sherlock wanted to ask if Mary wasn’t making dinner for him, but he knew the answer already. He also found it highly amusing that John was swearing in front of his newborn, and decided to keep that to himself, too. “I can get it,” he offered.

“No,” John declined. “You always paid for my meals back at Baker Street. Just--hold her,” he handed the baby to Sherlock. “I’ll just be a minute. I left my wallet in my coat pocket.” The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” John called as he walked briskly out of the room.

Sherlock was alone with John’s child. John had given her to him quickly, not giving Sherlock enough time to properly cradle her in his arms, so her tiny body was pressed against his chest, her head turned sideways and resting on his shoulder. Her dark blue eyes stared in the absent way infants do, brain not developed enough to really see what was in front of her. It was always weird for Sherlock to think that he was once like that, too. An even weirder thought was _Mycroft_ as an infant. He couldn’t picture it.

His focus went back to her. She was so warm for such a small thing. Sherlock’s hand was able to cover her back, and he found himself fascinated by this. She gurgled and his eyes widened, but she settled. She blinked lethargically, golden lashes shining, and her eyes slowly closed. He could only stare at her. He noticed that she smelled nice (was this what people called that “new baby smell”?). He gently put his nose into her silky blonde hair, inhaling. He wondered if her father’s hair was this soft. She frowned and whined and Sherlock re-positioned her so that her face rested higher on his shoulder.

He knew that in reality, she was just fine, but he didn’t like seeing her troubled. He lifted the hand that wasn’t holding her and ran his thumb delicately over the tiny furrow of her brow, smoothing it out. The human contact seemed to comfort her, and her features went slack and she rubbed her eye with a tiny fist. His chest tightened. He couldn't get over how  _tiny_ she was. He felt like she could slip away, fall out of his grip with ease. Anxiety clutched his chest. What if he dropped her? He carefully shifted her so her head was tucked under his chin, and he wrapped both arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other supporting her lower back and bum.

“Sherlock,” John called softly.

Sherlock nearly spun around, but remembered the infant in his arms just in time.

John was giving him that same fond, sunshine-filled smile he had given when Sherlock held her the first time in the hospital. Sherlock’s face filled with heat. He wasn’t sure how to feel being seen this way.

“I got Chinese,” John said, voice still soft. “You can have some.”

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry, but thank you.” He could have gone for something to eat, but he didn’t want to let go of her. He could always eat at home. “I can take care of her while you eat,” he said. “I imagine you haven’t gotten a lot of help around here.”

John’s expression darkened, and Sherlock mentally scolded himself for breaking the tender moment.

“It’s not exactly that,” John said gruffly. “Can we talk about it in the kitchen?”

“Certainly.”

Sherlock held the baby as John spoke between bites of wonton soup.

“Mary _has_ been taking care of her,” John confessed, eyes stormy at the mention of her name, “but she’s acting like I don’t do enough. She never outright says it, but it’s always there. It’s only been a handful of days, and she’s acting like she’s the mother of the year and I’m not on her level, or some rubbish of that sort. It’s…” He swallowed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

The baby started fussing and Sherlock subconsciously rubbed her back.

John sighed. “She’s just as insufferable as she was when she was pregnant. I thought she would soften up once she was born, but fuck, was I wrong. I shouldn’t have expected any better, so I guess that’s my fault.”

“None of this is your fault,” Sherlock told him quietly.

That struck John somehow, and he looked down at his lap. Did Sherlock say something wrong?

But he looked back up, eyes weary. “You can read people in seconds. How did you not know about her?”

The question threw Sherlock off guard. His lips parts and he blinked. “I…” It was really because he only wanted to make John happy, especially after putting him through grief for two years, and he thought a nice wife would be good for him. “You know how deceptive she can be. She fooled me.” He would have rather admitted her outwitting him than exposing his heart.

John sighed. “Yeah, you’re right.” His eyes darkened.

Sherlock felt uneasy. “John, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said shortly, and winced at his tone. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound like a prick. I’m just stressed. I’m a new parent with a--less than happy marriage.”

Sherlock’s heart kicked in his chest. This was the closest John ever got to saying he despised his marriage. They were getting somewhere. “John--”

They heard a key in the lock of the front door. Mary entered, and Sherlock screamed internally. Must she ruin everything?! She didn’t look as exhausted as John, but there were notable signs of stress on her face. She had dark circles and the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes were more pronounced than usual.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Sherlock, clearly shocked to see him.

Sherlock felt like a deer in headlights. He hated feeling like she had the upper hand.

“Hello,” she said warily, a cautious smile creeping up her lips. “What brings you here?” Her eyes went to the baby.

“I came over to bring a gift from Mrs. Hudson,” he said, nodding to the bag on the coffee table.

Mary looked at it. “What’s in it?”

“A couple outfits,” John said, his hand clenching around his spoon.

She looked at John. “You ordered? I could have made dinner.”

“I was hungry and couldn’t wait,” he said cooly, and Mary’s lip twitched.

“You didn’t order anything for me?” she asked, getting testy.

John shrugged and stuffed another spoonful of wonton soup into his mouth. “You went out. I thought you would’ve gotten something,” he said, mouth full.

Sherlock felt extremely out of place, right in the middle of their tension, sticking out like a sore thumb in the atmosphere. He didn’t belong there. _Neither does John,_ he thought stubbornly.

Mary laughed through her nose, “How’d you rope him into holding her?”

“He _offered_ ,” John said sternly, in no mood for her quips.

Sherlock’s hand tightened ever so slightly around the baby’s back. He glanced back down at her. She was so fragile. He didn’t want to leave her with Mary. While the logical part of his brain told him Mary would not harm her, his instincts told him to shield the baby. He felt an argument bubbling between John and Mary, likely to erupt after he leaves, and he worried their shouting would upset her. Of course, the baby would have no memory of any argument John and Mary had at this point, but...still. He felt so ridiculously illogical.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. This is what happened when he cared for someone. He got illogical. He turned into an idiot. It happened with John long ago, and it already happened with his child, in less than two weeks. How did this happen so quickly? His heartbeat was heavy. This baby was not his. He should leave.

“I should get back to the flat, actually,” he said stiffly. “I left an experiment to boil, and if I don’t check on it soon, it could explode.”

“What the hell are you boiling?” John asked worriedly.

Mary stared at him. _I’m not John. I can tell when you’re fibbing._

He would keep up the lie. “Nothing that should concern you,” he told John “It’ll be fine. I have enough time to take care of it.” He walked to John and cautiously handed him the baby. “Here.” There was no way he would willingly give the baby to Mary.

John held out his arms and took the baby. The baby started crying in John’s arms and he shushed her. Did Sherlock do something wrong? Did he handle her incorrectly?

“I think she needs a change,” John said, standing up. “I did just feed her. I’ll go check.” He went into the bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone with Mary.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Mary blinked at him, a patronizing smile slowly forming on her lips. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

He put his face into a mask of indifference, or at least he tried to. “I already told you.”

“And I think that’s a load of shite.”

Sherlock almost visibly reacted to that. Mary rarely swore.

“I’m here for the baby,” he said, monotone. He couldn’t let Mary know he was affected by her. He would try his damned hardest not to give her any satisfaction.

“You don’t care about her,” she stated.

Anger brewed in his stomach and he took slow, measured breaths. “Stop acting like you know me.”

“But I do,” she said with a short laugh. “I know why you’re really here.”

His jaw clenched. “Your assumptions are false.”

Suddenly, her amusement vanished and her voice turned cold. “Are they really?”

His eyes bored into hers, and she stared back, unwavering. “You don’t know me,” he told her again, voice rough with the effort to hold back his anger.

“I see how you look at him,” she replied immediately, head tilting imperceptibly. “As soon as I met you, you gave yourself away.” Her lips pulled up, but it looked more like a grimace than a smile. “You weren’t expecting me that night at the restaurant. No time to put on your facade, hmm?”

He was humiliated. He was in love with her husband, and she knew it. His mouth worked, and no sound came out. She was straight-up confronting him, and he wasn’t prepared for this conversation. This is why he had sworn off love for decades. He always wound up on the losing side.

“I’m sure you had fun playing house, but maybe you shouldn’t come back here,” she said nonchalantly, walking over to an armchair in the sitting room and planting herself in it.

His pulse spiked. Was she going to say it? Was she going to threaten him? Could be tell Mycroft?

John came back into the room and Sherlock wanted to shout at him to leave so Mary could finish her thought.

“I was right, she needed a clean diaper. She’s sleeping again.” He looked at them, eyebrows furrowing. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Mary smiled sweetly.

Sherlock wanted to vomit. “Yes, I was just leaving. Goodbye, John,” he nodded.

“Bye, Sherlock,” he said uneasily, knowing something was wrong.

Sherlock didn’t bother saying goodbye to Mary.

He left, hailed a cab, and sagged into the seat when the cabbie started driving to Baker Street. He hadn’t done much that day, yet he felt exhausted. He just wanted to go home and sleep, which wasn’t a common feeling for him. Sherlock felt the need to curl into a ball. He didn’t want to go back there ever again. He was blatantly unwelcome in Mary’s domain, and that was where John was.  If he wanted to see John, it would have to be at his flat. He doubted John would accompany him to a crime scene for a long time, but he couldn’t simply call and invite him to the flat. John would wonder why Sherlock wanted him, alone. Mary wouldn’t wonder; she would know.

His phone buzzed, and he was surprised to see a text from John.

**Sherlock, what’s wrong? What happened? -J**

The answer would have revealed his heart. He put his phone away.

He just wanted her gone already.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was writing this chapter, new pictures of Sherlock from the set emerged. I'm going to TRY to incorporate that into this story, but I'm not going to try to write a case fic and make sense of every little detail of setlock and predict the plot. I'm no meta writer; I'm an unpopular fic writer :D


	5. Feeling Under the Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock distances himself from John after his visit to Mary's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like putting Sherlock through pain.  
> This chapter is definitely on the longer side, but I can't guarantee more chapters will be this length. I'll try, but I'm not going to force the story simply for word count.

The next day, John called him. Sherlock was in the middle of watching mind-numbing television as a way to forget about the disastrous visit yesterday, and was grateful for the interruption. “John?”

“Hey, Sherlock,” John greeted, albeit a little awkwardly. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” he responded. His heart fluttered at John’s concern. It was short-lived, though. He couldn’t stay on the phone for long. “I’ve been doing experiments,” he lied.

“Yeah?” John asked, sounding slightly relieved. “Yeah, you did say that yesterday. Well, er, good. That’s, uh, nice. I just thought--you know what? Never mind. I don’t know what I thought. Call me if a case comes up, yeah?”

Sherlock’s toes curled in a short burst of joy. “I will.”

He was happy to know John wanted to interact with him, but after that, he didn’t really talk to John for two months.

Sherlock didn’t initiate conversations with John out of fear Mary would punish him (or John) somehow, and John didn’t text him for three weeks after that. Mycroft assured Sherlock, though, that he and the baby were safe and sound. Sherlock trusted his word, and didn’t have the emotional energy to send a text. The happiness the phone call gave him lasted for about a week, and his mood deteriorated into misery by week two. His visit to Mary’s house had really gotten to him, although he would never admit that out loud. He knew he had to find a way to get Mary out of their lives for good, but he couldn’t do that without John’s help, or if he kept avoiding her. But, how could he not avoid her? She was downright nasty to him, and he did have a slight fear she would get wind of his intentions and kill him. She was dangerous.

He started sleeping more and more to escape the crushing weight of the situation, and only felt more tired upon waking. The nightmares didn’t help. He had the same dream nearly every night. He dreamt of when Mary threatened him in the hospital. His mind played through the way she came into his hospital room when he was drugged and only half-conscious, and threatened him in that sing-song voice, _You don’t tell him. Sherlock! You don’t tell John._ He had wanted to move, push her away and scream, but his body was like stone from the morphine, and sound refused to come out of his throat. He woke up in a cold sweat each time the dream happened.

He didn’t feel much better during the day. Although he wasn’t ill, he felt unwell, but he had no motivation to do much about it. He had to admit he was letting his grooming habits go a bit, too, with proper brown scruff growing on his face. He did enjoy the fact that Mrs. Hudson didn’t like it, though.

Four weeks in, John started texting Sherlock again, asking how he was doing. If Sherlock responded at all, he gave one-word replies. He was paranoid Mary would read their messages, and he definitely didn’t want to reveal anything to John in any way but in person.

He only left the flat to buy groceries and occasionally bother Lestrade for cold cases. He didn’t want a case that required legwork, though, because John couldn’t be with him. The last time John wasn’t with him on a case, Sherlock had taken Molly, and while it certainly wasn’t her fault, his heart wasn’t into it.

Eight weeks later, at the Yard, Lestrade was actually getting concerned.

“You...don’t want a case?” Lestrade stared at him with wide eyes. “Jesus, are you sick?”

“No,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Then why don’t you want a case?” he asked, incredulous.

Sherlock plopped a file into Lestrade’s desk. “I solved the cold case for you.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he crossed his arms. “What’s wrong, Sherlock? You haven’t been yourself for weeks.”

Sherlock didn’t like discussing his feelings--that was one of the things he had in common with John--but he kept all of this to himself, not even telling Mrs. Hudson about his troubles, and it was getting to him. Lestrade seemed concerned, and they were apparently friends, so maybe Sherlock could trust him.

“Well…” Actually, he had no idea how to start.

Lestrade shut the door to his office and sat behind his desk. “Take a seat, would you?”

Sherlock sat in the chair in front of his desk stiffly, back straight as a rod, hands clasped together. “John’s had his baby.”

“Yes, I remember,” he nodded patiently. “Is something wrong with the baby?”

“No,” he assured him immediately. “It’s nothing like that. At least, she was fine the last time I saw her.”

“And when was that?”

“About eight weeks ago.”

Lestrade leaned on his elbows, “Okay. Does this have to do with John?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes shifting to focus on a pen on Lestrade’s desk. “I haven’t spoken to him since I saw the baby.”

“Why not?” he asked.

Sherlock thought of what to say and what to exclude. “His wife thinks it’s best if I stay away.”

Lestrade’s brow furrowed. “Mary? Why?”

 _That’s right,_ Sherlock reminded himself. Lestrade didn’t know about the night at Magnussen’s office. No one bothered telling him. Better late than never… “Remember when I was shot last year?”

“Yeah, of course I do,” his expression darkened. “You escaped from the hospital and set your recover back by a good two months.”

“Yes,” he said simply. He paused and looked up at his face. “Mary did it.”

Lestrade’s jaw hit the floor. “She did _what?!”_ he shouted.

“Shhh!” Sherlock hissed.

“I can’t fucking believe it!” he shot up from the chair. “All of this time and she’s the one--!”

“Sit down, it’s over,” Sherlock waved his hand.

“She needs to be arrested--”

“My brother knows,” Sherlock cut him off sharply.

Lestrade’s lips snapped closed. He knew if Sherlock wanted something done about it, he would have told Mycroft to do it. He shook his head, dumbfounded and furious, and slumped back into his chair. “Why the bloody hell would she do that?” he growled.

“The short version is that I discovered she’s not who she says she is. She has a dark past. Mary wasn’t pleased I discovered her secret, and wanted me out of the way so I wouldn’t tell John.” It felt good to talk about this.

Lestrade was still shaking his head. “Jesus Christ. Why is John still with her?”

The million dollar question. “For the baby, I believe,” he said, fiddling with a button on his coat.

“That’s bullshit,” Lestrade snapped.

Sherlock felt touched at how angry Lestrade was on his behalf. He thought of how tired and miserable John looked. “I think something else is keeping him with her, but he won’t tell me. I’m--concerned for his well being, and the child’s.”

“What, because of Mary?”

He nodded silently.

“Sherlock,” he said intensely, eye lighting with fire, “if anything happens, just call and my team will be there.” He scowled, teeth bared. “I can’t believe she fucking shot you.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “I appreciate the offer, Lestrade, but I have my brother watching the house to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Lestrade sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “You don’t have to tell me what you found out about her, but I imagine the sooner he and the baby get away from her, the better.”

“Indeed,” he agreed.

“By the way,” his tone became a little lighter, “did they name the baby yet?”

“As I said, I haven’t spoken to him in eight weeks.”

“Right, right. Has he tried talking to you?”

“He’s sent a few texts, but hasn’t come to Baker Street,” he said sullenly.

“He’s got an infant, Sherlock,” Lestrade reminded him, as if Sherlock somehow forgot. “He’s still got a job at the clinic, too, yeah? He’s probably a very busy man.”

Too busy for his lonely friend. He was selfish. Sherlock looked down at his hands.

“What did Mary say about not seeing the baby again, or something?” he asked.

Sherlock looked up. “Oh, right. She doesn’t think I actually care about the baby and wants me to stay away from the three of them.”

“But why, though?” he stroked his chin. “She got what she wanted, right? John’s still married to her and she’s got her happy little family. John knows she shot you?”

“Correct,” he mumbled.

“Then in her mind, she shouldn’t see you as a threat,” he concluded.

Sherlock swallowed. Lestrade was nothing but supportive throughout the conversation thus far. His neck heated up. It wasn’t so bad when he told Mrs. Hudson, so perhaps telling Lestrade wouldn’t be terrible, either. “She...knows,” he forced out.

Lestrade blinked dumbly at him. “She knows what?”

Embarrassment turned into anger. “Don’t act like _you_ don’t know,” he scowled.

“Woah, easy,” he held up his hands. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock. Care to tell me?”

He deflated and sunk into the chair. He shouldn’t lash out at Lestrade. “Mary knows that I…” His heart was hammering in his chest. “She knows I have a, certain fondness, for her husband.”

Lestrade’s features softened. “Oh. Oh, Sherlock--”

He jumped from the chair and rubbed his eyes, back facing Lestrade. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock heard him say. “I always sort of suspected,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” A beat of silence. “That’s why you’re like this, huh?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. His cheeks stung with heat.

Lestrade continued. “I get it now. God, it must be awful for you, with the baby and all.”

“I don’t mind the baby,” Sherlock clarified. “I dislike how Mary is using an innocent child as a way to trap John, but I have no animosity toward the baby herself.” He couldn’t.

“All right, yeah, that makes sense. All of this is making more sense now, actually. So, Mary knows you’re--you feel things for John,” he said awkwardly, “and that’s why she thinks you’re a threat. Well, can’t blame her for thinking that.”

Sherlock turned around. “What do you mean?”

Lestrade’s arms were crossed and he was sitting back in his chair. He shrugged his shoulders, “Well,” he tilted his head to the side, looking down at his desk, “with how John went on about you when he thought you were dead. She was with him the most during that time, so she must have heard the bulk of it.”

“What did he say about me?” Sherlock asked, planted his palms on Lestrade’s desk.

Lestrade was unnerved, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “He talked about you all of the time, Sherlock. Look, I’ve got a lot of best friends. John didn’t talk about you the way you talk about your best friend.”

“What kinds of things did he say?” Sherlock asked sharply. He needed to know.

Lestrade stared at him. He sat up straight in his chair. “I didn’t see John too much during that time. He didn’t go out much. Just went to work and went back home. One time I got him to go out to a pub with me.” A flash of sadness flooded his eyes. “Bad idea, getting alcohol into a grieving man. He started babbling a bit. He said he didn’t treat you right, that if he were nicer to you, maybe you wouldn’t have jumped.”

Sherlock felt ice form in his stomach. He couldn’t speak. John blamed himself? He never said…

“Then,” Lestrade continued, voice thick but steady, “he said how he should have told you. He kept repeating that, ‘I’m such an idiot, I never told him, now it’s too late.’ I asked what he was talking about, and he seemed to snap out of it and left.” He looked at Sherlock for a long moment, eyes locked onto his. “You’re a genius. You can deduce what he was going to say.”

Sherlock’s blood was rushing through his ears.

“Hey, you okay?” Lestrade got up. “You look pale.”

Did John really feel something, too? Was Lestrade right? Were his own assumptions right? John couldn’t have meant anything else. But no, there was no point in thinking about that. He was married. But he was unhappily married. But there was the baby. But he could divorce her. But Mary was dangerous. But Mycroft could help. But she outsmarted them before. But now they know who she is.

His head hurt, the backs of his eyeballs pounding. “I have a headache,” he said, fingers coming up to his temple. “I’m going home.”

Lestrade eye him warily. “Okay. Go home and get some rest. But, Sherlock, before you go I've got to ask: have you told John?”

His skin prickled with heat. “Told him what?”

“Y’know,” he waved a hand, gesturing to him, “how you feel?”

“Absolutely not,” he said stiffly. “Why would I?”

“For a load of reasons. You can't go on like this.”

“Watch me,” he said stubbornly.

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. “At least talk to him about Mary. He should know what she's said to you.”

His lip twitched. “Fine.” He turned up his coat collar, ready to leave.

“Call if you need anything. Oh, and do me a favor?”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“Shave, for god’s sake.”

* * *

Sherlock got home and took off his coat and shoes, and went in his bedroom to grab his red dressing gown. After he put it on, he walked into the bathroom as a shortcut to the sitting room, but paused in front of the mirror on the wall, looking at his reflection. His cheeks were sunken in, cheekbones sharper than usual, making him look sickly. The scruff didn’t help at all, nor did his curls. His curls, which were usually styled with hair product or fluffy (depending on the time of day), appeared matted, and like they had not been touched by a comb in eons. The facial hair, combined with the loss of weight in his face and bags under his eyes, made him look absolutely haggard. No wonder Lestrade asked about his health. The last time he looked even remotely this bad, John found him in a drug den.

But Sherlock merely sighed, having no desire to do anything about his disheveled appearance. He left the bathroom and curled up on the couch. He needed to think. Was Lestrade right? Did John have feelings for him? He had his suspicions before, but hearing the possibility from someone else made it seem very real. If Lestrade’s words were true, and John blamed himself for Sherlock’s supposed death...Sherlock never knew. He felt guilty for putting John through all of that before, but now, he felt even worse. It never failed to upset him, how very wrong everything went when he returned. He was a fool to think John would simply welcome him back into his life with open arms, and that they would go back to living together in the flat and happily solve crimes for the rest of their days. He had, not for the first time, severely underestimated John Watson.

Sherlock’s chest ached, and in a moment of weakness, he took one of the throw pillows and hugged it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply past the pangs of hunger plaguing his stomach. He needed to _think,_ and his brain wasn't cooperating.

He wanted John, but even if he managed to see him, Sherlock couldn’t do what he wanted. He couldn’t hold John in his arms and kiss him for hours, or have John in his bed. He still wasn’t sure of John’s feeling toward him. Not knowing was killing him, and yet he couldn’t just casually have this conversation with John. He couldn’t call him  up and say, _“John, we need to talk about us. Leave the baby with your assassin wife and let’s talk about our feelings.”_

Sherlock may not have been able to have John as he truly wanted, but he still wanted to see him, even if it would only to be for a minute. Sherlock couldn’t go to Mary’s house again, so perhaps he could try to visit John at the clinic? But, Mary worked as a nurse there. She had the baby to take care of now, but Sherlock wouldn’t put it past her to show up with the baby to keep watch.

Was he losing his mind? Would she actually do that?

He hated feeling this way. His thoughts wouldn’t stop crashing into each other and making his head _pound_. He groaned, reminding himself using drugs was out of the question. For John. For the baby. His sigh was shaky. He wanted silence and peace.

* * *

He felt warm and sluggish, fuzzy and sleepy, yet he registered something gently shaking his shoulder. He made a low, grumpy sound in his throat. His eyes opened and he saw legs in front of him. _What?_ He let out a confused grumble, looked up, and could not help his face from softening completely.

_John!_

John was standing above him, hand on his shoulder, with his daughter held by a baby carrier strapped to his chest (what were those called? Irrelevant). The sight was so unexpected it took Sherlock’s brain a few moments to process.

“John?” he asked drowsily.

“Yeah, Sherlock,” he replied softly. “It’s me. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he answered, sitting up slowly. He realized he was still hugging the pillow, and cast it aside quickly.

The baby was staring at him with big blue eyes, kicking her little feet absentmindedly. She was dressed in a pink jumpsuit with rabbit ears. Sherlock’s heart sped up at the sight. Eight weeks and she was already bigger (stupid, that’s how babies work). “Why are you here?” he asked, and he hoped he didn’t sound brusque.

John took his hand off his shoulder. “Lestrade told me to check on you.”

He was simultaneously annoyed and grateful. “I’m an adult. I don’t need someone to check on me.”

John was frowning, looking more tired than he did two months ago. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like he was holding back a yawn. “Well, he just made a suggestion. You don’t look well,” he said bluntly.

Sherlock touched his jaw. “Is it the facial hair?”

“That’s part of it,” he said, amusement tinging his tone. He grew serious. “Your hair, have you washed it?”

“Of course I have,” he said defensively. “I never fail to shower, John.” Honestly!

“Okay, then when’s the last time your hair has seen a comb?”

He didn’t answer and let the baby’s little sounds fill the silence.

“And--” John was cut off by his daughter getting fussy. “Can I set her down on the sofa?”

“Of course,” he said instantly.

John took her out of the carrier, shushing her gently when she started whining, and set her down on the other side of the sofa, leaning her against the cushions, at a safe enough distance from the edge of the furniture.

John took off the carrier and put it on the coffee table. “That’s better,” he stretched his shoulders.

She looked like a little bean sitting on the big sofa. “She’s okay like that?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, she’s not moving around much yet, so as long as we keep an eye on her, she shouldn’t fall off.”

He accepted this with a nod and a hum. There was something about seeing her in the flat, on his furniture, that made him feel a hundred times better than before he fell asleep. John’s presence certainly helped, too, but he knew they were about to get into uncomfortable territory.

John leaned down, their faces level.

Sherlock stared into his eyes, winning over the urge to look away. From this sort distance, he could see how deep the blue of John's eyes was, but he could also see the redness in his eyes. He knew John couldn't have been sleeping much the past two months.

“You’re thinner,” John observed, using his doctor’s voice, reaching out and touching his cheek.

Sherlock prayed to every deity he could think of that he didn’t blush while John was touching his face. “I’ve been busy,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t had much time to sit down and eat.”

John pressed his lips together, rubbing his thumb over a sharp cheekbone. "This is more than being busy, Sherlock. I lived with you while you were busy."

Sherlock wanted to lean into his touch so badly. "That was years ago."

John straightened up and opened and closed his left hand. “You’ve barely left the house,” he countered. “Mrs. Hudson told me.”

How long had he been sleeping? “Yes, but I’ve been working on cold cases which do not require me to leave this room.”

John fixed him an exasperated stare for a long moment, the only sound in the room being the baby’s various gurgles and coos. His expression fell, and he looked downright sad.

“John?” he stood up, then his head swam.

“Easy,” John grabbed his wrists. “Sit down. You’re going to eat right now. No arguments.”

He sat down again reluctantly. He hated appearing weak, but he craved John’s care.

John went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, then made a disgusted groan. “You need to clean out your fridge!” he called.

“Later,” Sherlock called back. Okay, maybe he really hadn’t been eating that much.

John came in, face scrunched up in a way that made him look like an adorable, angry puppy. “God, you need to take care of that. The fridge was cleaner when you used to store body parts in it. I’m going to get something from Mrs. Hudson’s. Don’t think this conversation is over,” he pointed a finger, using his no-nonsense voice.

“Oh, I eagerly await for you to continue,” he rolled his eyes.

John huffed, eyes narrowing. “Watch her for a couple minutes.”

He left the flat and Sherlock heard him go downstairs.

Sherlock didn’t know how to feel right now. He was glad John was there, certainly, but he wanted to stop the serious conversations and have John sit down and spend time with him. That’s all. They did need to talk, but he didn’t feel up to it. The again, when did he ever feel like having a serious conversation with John? If he knew the conversation would lead them to a better place, then he would be more willing to engage, but he always feared that if he exposed how much he cared, John would run away. Even if John thought of him as more than a friend, Sherlock was too much. He knew he was. When he felt emotions, he felt them fiercely, obsessively. He placed a hand over his heart.

Those thoughts were too dangerous right now.

Sherlock looked at the baby. She blew a raspberry and spit dribbled down her chin. Sherlock took the end of his dressing gown and wiped her mouth, making a ‘tsk’ sound. He hesitated, then stroked his index finger over her chubby cheek. She was soft as a peach. She smiled at him and his lip wobbled.

He listened, and didn’t hear John coming back up yet. He hesitated. “Hello,” he spoke softly, voice rumbling.

She looked at him.

He released a long breath. “I’m glad you’re well,” he told her sincerely. He pushed the hood with bunny ears off her head, and that seemed to please her. She pressed her lips together with a coo, nearly smiling. He smoothed down her blonde hair, unruly from the hood, and twisted a strand around his finger. She looked at him curiously, not sure what to make of him.

"I'm a friend," he spoke quietly without even knowing. 

She seemed wary without her father. She was only two months old, but she was old enough to recognize her primary caretakers, and that Sherlock was not one of them. He didn't want her to fear him in any way. He lay down on his stomach, putting his face down near hers. "See? I have no intention to harm you," he explained. 

Perhaps it was his imagination, but she appeared a little more comfortable. Then, her tiny nose scrunched up, and she sneezed. Sherlock sat up, reached for a tissue from the box on the coffee table, and lay back down, wiping her nose. "There you are. Can't have you full of mucus when your father returns." He put the tissue on the floor. He'd get it later. He looked back at her. Her nose really was like a button. He slowly extended his finger and touched her nose, and she grasped his finger, squeezing it.

A smile slowly spread across his face. "The infamous infant death grip," he chuckled. "Very well. Do as you please."

Sherlock heard John coming back upstairs. He pulled his finger back and sat up straight, folding his hands atop his lap.

John came in and shut the door behind him, ham sandwich on a plate in one hand and water bottle in the other.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine,” Sherlock assured.

John brought the food to him. “Eat,” he ordered.

Sherlock obeyed, and he tried not to eat too fast, giving away how hungry he really was.

John sat on the coffee table across from him, their knees almost touching. “I’ve told Mrs. Hudson to make sure you eat.”

“For god’s sake,” Sherlock snapped, which was much less effective with the mouthful of sandwich, “I’m nearly forty.” He swallowed. “I don’t need to be checked up on.”

“Well, you bloody let yourself get like this,” John glared at him, hands grasping his own knees, squeezing. “I asked if you were okay at the hospital, and two months later, you look worse.”

“I’ve been _busy--”_

“Stop lying,” John whispered sharply, clearly trying to keep his voice down for the baby. His knuckles were white around his knees. “Fuck, Sherlock, stop lying to me.” His eyes were piercing.

If his mood weren’t directed at him, Sherlock would have found him beautiful in that moment. He took another bite of the sandwich.

“I’ve tried texting you, and you’ve barely answered. I told you before.” He swallowed. “When you get like this, you can call.”

“You have a family,” Sherlock said woodenly around another mouthful of sandwich.

“I can make time for you,” John said earnestly.

They stared at each other with wide eyes.

John cleared his throat and looked down at his feet.

Sherlock took a sip of water to prevent himself from responding. His palms were sweaty.

John frowned, looking just plain sad now. “Sherlock, please tell me what’s wrong.”

The baby started whimpering softly and both of their heads snapped to her. John got up, scooped her into his arms, and sat down where she had been, rocking her.

Sherlock put the half-eaten sandwich on the plate next to him and placed the water bottle on the floor next to his feet.

John looked at him sternly. “Sher--”

“I’m going to finish it,” he promised.

John nodded, giving him his full attention, absentmindedly soothing the baby.

Sherlock shifted and moved his legs onto the sofa, pulling his dressing gown around him. “Mary.”

John’s eyes hardened. “What about her?”

He head to tread carefully. He didn’t know how much he could get away with. “Two months ago, when I came to give you Mrs. Hudson’s gift, you left the room to see if the baby needed a diaper change.”

“I remember,” he said, holding the baby against his chest and rubbing her back. “Something happened then.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You know?”

“I suspected,” he said. His lip twitched. “You looked upset when I came back in the room. Mary wouldn’t tell me what you two talked about, and we started fighting about everything after that. Just everything,” he reclined tiredly, taking the baby with him.

Sherlock bit his lip. “Sorry.”

He turned his head on the cushion. “’S not your fault. What did she say?” he insisted.

“She said I shouldn’t go back there, and that I don’t really care about your child.” He could not tell John about her knowing he loved him.

John visibly struggled not to shout with an infant’s ear right near his mouth. “She said _what?”_ he hissed. The baby whimpered and he rocked her. “Sorry,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. He looked at Sherlock with a mix of anger and guilt. “Is that why you’re upset?”

 _That, and I love you._ Sherlock stared into the empty fireplace across the room. “Basically,” he mumbled.

“You do care for her,” John said firmly.

Sherlock closed his shaking hand into a fist. He wanted to admit everything. This was agonizing, having John so close.

“I know you do,” John went on. “You’ve only held her twice, and both times, you looked at her like she’s made of glass.”

“She’s like a doll,” he whispered.

John made a strained sound, causing Sherlock to look back at him. His features were contorted in pain, chest heaving. “Why did you ever say you’re a sociopath?” he asked hoarsely. “You’re not. You’re so fucking not.”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “John, I truly thought that, but not anymore.” Not since his Victorian drug dream on the plane. Since then, he could fully admit to himself that he had the capacity to care, and his heart belonged to John. “I know now, but I’m--glad you don’t think I am.”

“How could I?” John asked with a sad smile. “You’ve been so…” He inhaled deeply, looking down at the baby. “You’ve been marvelous with her. And to me,” he raised his eyes. “Ever since you came back.”

Sherlock’s shaking fists were hidden in the pockets of his dressing gown. “I made a vow to you and her, John. It’s the only vow I ever made, and I intend to keep it.”

John’s laugh almost resembled a sob. “God, Sherlock, you’re amazing, and _Mary,”_ his voice turned sour, “dared to tell you not to see her? She’s my bloody daughter, too, and I want you in her life.”

Sherlock was quiet, save for his heavy breaths, his chest tight.

John’s breathes were just as heavy, and if it were not for his dry eyes, he would have looked like he was on the verge of tears.

Sherlock didn’t like John looking like that. “John,” his voice quivered.

“I’ve named her,” John said, voice unstable, as well. “After we fought, she agreed to let me name her. It was a compromise of sorts. She doesn’t know the reason behind it, and one day I’ll tell her, just to rub it in.” He held the baby closer, and her little fists grabbed onto his jumper. John swallowed, cleared his throat, and told Sherlock, “Her name is Billie, with an _ie_ at the end.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyyyyyyyy bet you saw that coming :P  
> While I was thinking of the name, I thought of Billie Piper, and thought "eh, why not?"


	6. Mary's Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reveals why he's still living with Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos!  
> Okay, so I assumed everyone would know what I was talking about, but I'll clarify: John named her 'Billie' because 'Billy' is a nickname for 'William', and Sherlock's full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I go into it in this chapter, too. :P

Sherlock’s lips parted and he blinked rapidly, heart beating hard. He stopped breathing. His lips quivered and he closed his mouth, swallowing. He tried speaking, but only a cut-off, embarrassing whimper came from his throat. He swallowed again, a fierce blush blooming across his face. “You,” his voice shook, “she’s…” He looked at the baby-- _Billie._ He had a baby, John Watson’s baby, named after him. “You named her after…” He trailed off. He couldn’t say it. It felt like his heart was trembling, if that were possible. He didn’t finish his sentence, but pointed his trembling index finger at his own chest.

John’s smile was nervous, his bottom lip between his teeth. “Yeah,” he nodded. “You did suggest to name her after you. I know you were joking,” he added before Sherlock could say it, “but the idea really warmed up to me. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I didn’t say it at the time, but I like your full name. Why don’t you go by ‘William’?”

“It’s boring,” he responded automatically.

John laughed. “Of course it is. ‘Sherlock’ suits you better, anyway.” He chewed his lip again. “Are you okay with this?”

Sherlock nodded silently, dumbly. His stomach rolled. He needed more food, but he couldn’t move. He blinked some more, his eyelids the only part of his body cooperating. He stared at the little bundle in a pink bunny jumpsuit that was now Billie Watson. This innocent child was named after him. He blinked away moisture which he could not explain.

John’s smile slowly lost its anxiety and became softer. “You’re doing that thing again, like you did when I asked you to be my best man.”

Sherlock remembered that clearly. In fact, it was one of his most treasured memories. He was surprised John remembered his reaction.

John chuckled. “Are you always like this when you’re caught off guard?”

He took deep, slow breaths. He had to speak sometime. “John.”

“Sherlock?”

He stated the obvious, as he normally did when he was overwhelmed. “You named her after me.”

John giggled, his nerves back. “Yeah, I did.”

Best friends didn’t name their children after each other, did they? This was a sign of something more, right? “Why?” he asked.

John, bless him, took no offense, knowing Sherlock just needed answers. “Because I didn’t want Mary to have any say, or any permanent mark on her. Her full name is Billie Hannah Watson.”

“Hannah, like Hamish,” Sherlock realized.

“Yeah. I don’t know if there’s some kind of female equivalent of my god-awful middle name, but I like ‘Hannah’, it sounds a little bit like ‘Hamish’, so there we are.”

Sherlock was still processing. “How...How were you able to name her without Mary’s say?”

John sighed. “Like I said, we fought after you left a couple months ago. I knew she upset you somehow, and frankly, I didn’t like that one bit. Things got out of hand and we fought about everything under the sun. At a certain point, I said I deserved to name her, considering all the shit she’s done. She eventually agreed. I think she just got tired of Billie not having a name, to be honest. Couldn't name her after Mary, because that's not even her real name, anyhow,” he added bitterly.

“But she doesn’t know my full name,” Sherlock clarified.

“No, she doesn’t. Imagine her reaction when she finds out,” he smirked.

Sherlock didn’t smile back. The thought made him uneasy. “What if she does something?” he asked, trying to conceal his rising panic.

John’s face fell. “Like what? Sherlock, are you okay? You’re getting pale.” He looked down at Sherlock’s half-eaten sandwich. “Eat more. A few bites of a sandwich isn’t enough.”

Sherlock picked up the sandwich and ate, thankful for a distraction. He loved the idea of John’s daughter being named after him. It warmed his heart more than he could say, and the more he thought about it, the more tears threatened to sting his eyes, but what if that pushed Mary over the edge? He _hated_ feeling this way. The last person who had gotten into his head this badly was Moriarty. He needed to voice his concern, though. He didn’t want Mary to harm John or Billie for this. “John?”

John was settling Billie down on the couch between them, letting her sleep on her back, her little arms bent at the elbows, hands curled into fists near her head. “Yeah? Sorry, I’m just gonna set her down for a bit. She was on my bad shoulder.”

“It’s fine.” He put the empty plate on the table.

John was looking at him expectantly.

He pressed his lips together. “What if Mary has a violent reaction to Billie’s name?”

John’s brow furrowed. “What?”

He sounded like an idiot. “I mean, what if she retaliates in some way?”

The wrinkle between John’s brow smoothed out. “Oh,” he said sadly. “That’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m merely concerned,” he reached for the water bottle by his feet, unable to make eye contact.

“No, this is it, isn’t it?” John shifted so he was fully facing Sherlock, careful not to disturb Billie. “You’re worried Mary is going to do something, ever since I brought up the possibility in the hospital. Jesus, is this why you’re so upset?”

“A large part of it,” he admitted, looking down at his lap. John was still missing the whole being desperately in love with him bit, but Sherlock would leave it. He expected John to reassure him, because that’s what John did; he was a caretaker, an occasionally hot-headed caretaker, but a caretaker nonetheless.

John didn’t do that. Instead, he looked down, eyes on Billie, and cleared his throat. “I’m worried, too,” he confessed.

That wasn’t reassuring. “You are?”

He nodded, and his eyes remained downcast. “The day when you were supposed to go into exile, when the plane turned around, Mary made it very clear she wasn’t pleased you were back for good. She said that to me as soon as we got back home.”

 _That doesn’t surprise me,_ Sherlock thought, but kept quiet, letting John speak.

John wore a grim frown, looking older than he had a mere minute ago. “I was furious with her for that, having the audacity to even say that to me!”

Billie whimpered, and John stroked a finger over her cheek. “Sorry,” he murmured.

Watching him be so gentle with her flooded Sherlock with emotion. “What else?” he asked.

John looked up at him. “That was our first big fight. She was livid that I was happy that you, my best friend, were not going away forever. She acted like I was completely unjustified.” His expression darkened. He was visibly holding back to the urge to shout. His left hand shook and he clenched it into a fist, and he took a deep, calming breath.

Sherlock wanted to tell John everything was all right and that he should calm down, but he didn’t think John would like being coddled. He always suffered silently. Sherlock did want to help him, always, but didn’t want to step over any lines.

John huffed, eyes flickering up to Sherlock’s. “She said if I file for a divorce, or cheat on her in any way, she’ll run away with Billie.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. “What?” he asked in a fraught whisper.

John looked utterly melancholy, and on the edge of despair. “She said she’ll take her, and promised I wouldn’t be able to find her. I don’t know what to do,” he confessed, demeanor positively dejected. “I hate her, Sherlock. I fucking hate that woman, but I can’t let her take Billie,” his voice cracked, and which startled them both. John turned around on the sofa, feet on the floor, rested his elbow on his knee, and put his hand over his eyes, shaking his head.

Sherlock felt like his world was crashing down on him. _“John,”_ he said emphatically, getting up and kneeling in front of John, his despair replaced with blossoming fury. Under any other circumstance, he would have leapt for joy upon hearing John hated her, but not this time.  He put on hand on John’s knee and used the other to grip his forearm. “Listen to me, John. I will not allow that to happen. She will _not_ take away your baby,” he promised in a vicious whisper, “not over my dead body.”

John removed his hand, eyes glassy. “You know she can arrange that,” he said, voice like shattered glass.

In that moment, Sherlock decided he never wanted to see John Watson cry again. His heart cracked into pieces, knowing John had to have been at his absolute breaking point to be in such a state around any other person. This is what Mary did to him. In a fit of compassion, he lifted himself off the ground and hugged John, arms around his shoulders, his head nestled against John’s.

John gasped and Sherlock felt it. He kept his arms around him, hoping John wouldn’t push him away, both literally and figuratively.

_Let me help you._

He was about to feel uncertain when John hugged him back, exhaling slowly.

Sherlock wanted to nuzzle John’s shoulder and kiss the side of his neck. Having him this close, so warm and solid and real, was dangerously tempting. He breathed deeply. This was good enough for now. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth from John’s body quiet his mind. “She won’t win,” he murmured. “I won’t let her. I promise, I won’t let her,” he said over and over, wanting to make John feel safe. He stopped talking after a while, and they embraced for a long, tender moment, the rhythm of their breaths slowly synchronizing. Once he felt John calm down, he took a risk, “I want to get rid of Mary.”

“I do, too,” John said sadly, his breath warm against Sherlock’s ear. “I’m sorry I ever went back to her. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“No,” Sherlock dismissed, “you did what you had to do. I know that.” He knew now.

John held him tighter, and Sherlock would have loved it if John weren’t so upset. “What do we do, Sherlock? I don't want her to hurt you or Billie.”

John’s concern wrapped around him like a warm blanket. “Mycroft is keeping watch on your house,” he revealed, “but we do need a plan.”

“Wait,” John pulled back, but kept his arms around Sherlock, “since when?”

“Since you got home from the hospital,” he admitted with a shy smile.

John smiled, too. “Yeah? You told him to keep watch for Billie?”

“You and Billie, yes.”

John snorted. “This is the first time I don’t want to smack your brother for invading my privacy.”

Sherlock wasn’t normally this close to John, and never, before this point, had his arms around him. He wanted to go back to hugging John, hold him against his chest. It was hard not to stare at him, taking in his golden lashes, deep blue eyes, and thin lips.

John noticed him staring. “Sherlock, you there?”

“I spoke to Mycroft about this,” he brought John’s attention away from him. “I don’t think she would be able to get away with Billie as long as we have the British government on our side.”

“Yeah, but how long can he keep watch? Ten years? Fifteen? I can’t raise my daughter in constant fear her mother will take her away.”

“I agree,” Sherlock said sympathetically, “which is why Mycroft’s surveillance is only a temporary solution. According to him, we need more than our suspicions to lock Mary away for good. I don’t want you to have to worry about her for the rest of your life.”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah, if she got out of jail, you know she’d come looking for me. Both of us, probably, ’cause she’d know you had something to do with it.”

Sherlock had a vision of Mary, years from now, breaking into the flat at night, and firing one final, fatal bullet into his head. He shivered.

“I do want that,” John’s voice interrupted his stupor, “what you said. I want her out of our lives.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I picked a real winner, didn’t I?”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Sherlock told him. “She preyed on you during a vulnerable time in your life.”

John looked at him pointedly.

Sherlock gulped, eyes flickering down, remembering that John had apparently blamed himself for his jump. “Sorry again,” he apologized, almost inaudibly.

John just shook his head again, his expression closed off.

“We know what she’s like now,” Sherlock took the subject away from his faked death. “I won’t let her take Billie, John.”

“I won’t either,” he vowed, tone intense. “That’s the only reason why I’m still with her.” His arms slowly dropped away from Sherlock’s body, so Sherlock reluctantly stopped hugging him. He sat on the coffee table, and they let tense silence take over the room for a few minutes.

Sherlock looked at the steady rise and fall of Billie’s stomach as she slept. She was blissfully unaware of the danger she could be in. He would protect her with every fiber of his being. His mind went through what John told him, and one thing stuck out like flashing headlights. “You said Mary would take her if you filed for a divorce or cheated on her. You would cheat?”

John shrugged, clearing his throat, the tips of his ears suddenly red. “It’s not like I plan on going out and shagging random women, but I think it’s something she’s always feared.”

“Why?” John was a loyal man.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged once again.

Sherlock knew he was still hiding something. If Lestrade was correct and John did have feelings for him, did that mean Mary feared John would cheat on her with him? He wasn’t sure, but that would actually explain a lot of her animosity toward him. The notion of John choosing him over Mary made him weak in the knees (thankfully, he was sitting down). He normally considered cheaters vile people consumed by their libido. This was not a normal situation. Mary was not a normal woman. They did not have a normal marriage. Still, Sherlock would much prefer John all to himself, without any worry of an angry, ex-assassin spouse. If John kissed him, he would obviously kiss back, but something would still feel wrong about it.

“I hate living with her,” John spoke. He was staring absently into the middle of the sitting room. “I wish I could leave. I hate sharing a bloody bed with her.” He rubbed his eyes. “Feels like I haven’t slept in months.”

“Billie’s sleeping, so you could rest for a while,” he offered.

John huffed, “I feel like I’ve done nothing but whine and be exhausted around you. I can’t be good company.”

“John, please, you’re fine. You have every right to feel as you do.”

John’s mouth twisted unhappily. “Here I am, talking about myself, when you’ve been over here, with your own problems. I’m sorry.”

“ _John,”_ he insisted, “I am _fine--”_

“No, you’re _not,”_ he retorted. “If I didn’t come in, when would you have eaten?”

He shifted uncomfortably, the coffee table creaking under him. “I would have eventually. I’m not withering away.”

“Your face has gotten thinner, Sherlock. I just--You’re worrying too much about other people that you’re not worrying about yourself.”

He felt his old, defensive walls slam back up. “Pardon me for caring.” He shot up from the coffee table, but John grabbed his arm.

“Sherlock, stop,” he held him in place, frustration growing. “That’s not what I mean, you prick. Listen,” he let go of his arm, “I’m glad you care. More than, glad, actually, I really, really appreciate it. But I don’t want you getting unhealthy in the process. Understand? I don’t want to have to worry about you, too.”

Sherlock sighed. He was being moody. He nodded. “Yes. I understand. Apologies.”

“It’s okay.” He held back a yawn behind his fist. “How about this: I take a power nap, and you shave in the meantime?”

That sparked a laugh from Sherlock. “Is my facial hair really that much of a concern to you?”

John held up his hands in mock-defense. “Well, what can I say?” Perhaps it was Sherlock’s imagination, but it sounded like John’s voice dropped ever so slightly. “I prefer my detectives clean shaven.”

The call-back did not go unnoticed. _I prefer my doctors clean shaven._ Sherlock was half-joking, half-flirting at the time. Was John flirting? Sherlock’s smile dropped, but John’s didn’t. John patted his shoulder and winked. “Hop to it.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, and he scurried away to the bathroom when no words formed. He shut the door behind him and looked in the mirror, a hand over his heart. He was overreacting. It was probably nothing. He groaned in frustration. He hated being so confused. He wanted an answer: did John want him, or not? What Lestrade told him and certain things that had happened between them over the years led him to one conclusion, and his own insecurities led him to another.

Sherlock looked in the mirror. His cheekbones were still pronounced, and the dark circles and facial hair were still there, but somehow, he looked better than he had early in the day. He shaved, and once he was finished, he had to admit it felt nice to get all of that off. He rubbed his hand over his smooth jaw. He glanced in the mirror again. He looked younger without a beard. Why did he let himself grow that thing?

Well, he knew why. He let his transport go. He had to take care of himself. For John. But, no, John would want him to take care of himself _for_ himself. He stared resolutely at his reflection. He would try to be better. He couldn’t support John and Billie if he didn’t eat and have a proper sleep schedule.

He grabbed a comb and hair gel from the medicine cabinet and tamed his curls, thinking the whole time. He had to find a way to get John away from Mary permanently. It was a comfort to know John was fed up with her, although Sherlock hated his unhappiness. He felt so conflicted, being happy John didn’t want her, and heartbroken John’s home life was so unpleasant and stressful.

Sherlock set the comb and bottle of gel on the sink and was pleased with his reflection. He looked like he needed a nap and a couple pounds added to him, but he didn’t look nearly as disheveled, closely resembling himself from before Billie’s birth. Would John be pleased? He scrunched up his nose and shook his head. Foolish thought. What was he, a pre-pubescent idiot? So what if John may find his cleaned up appearance attractive? But then he thought of John flirting with him in _that voice,_ and his heart skipped a beat.

Who was he kidding? He’d be happy for a solid week if John complimented his appearance. He had some people tell him he was attractive in the past when he turned on the charm for a case, but if John said he was attractive, that was a different story entirely.

He imagined John’s arms around his waist, lips brushing against the shell of his ear, _You’re beautiful._

Sherlock gasped. Stupid brain. He locked those thoughts away and left the bathroom.

He walked back into the sitting room, and stopped in front of the sofa, heart in his throat. John was lying on his back, head resting against one of the throw pillows, asleep, his arms around Billie. Billie was on his chest, tiny fists grasping his jumper, her hood falling back over her head, making it look like John was holding a little pink bunny. Her body moved up and down with each slow, steady movement of John’s chest.

Sherlock gingerly walked to them. Even in sleep, John’s expression was troubled, a wrinkle between his brow. Sherlock smoothed it out with his thumb, which only made John turn his head to the side, facing the back of the sofa, and tighten his hold on Billie. Sherlock cautiously sat on the arm of the sofa, running a hand through his curls. He looked down at John and Billie, and felt a gush of protectiveness. Mary would have to kill him before she harmed John or Billie. He would give his life for them, although he wanted to defeat Mary. He didn’t want to let her win. He wanted to have the honor of living his life with John and his daughter, if John would allow him. These were the two people he loved the most in the world. He could admit it to himself: somehow, defying all logic, he loved this baby.

Six years ago, he never would have believed he would find the love of his life, and grow to love a child. It seemed that Watsons always brought out the best in him.

Sherlock got his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown.

He sent a text to Mycroft:

_Mary Morstan has threatened to take John’s daughter if he tries to leave her. Ensure that does not happen. SH_

**Understood. She will not be able to disappear with our surveillance. MH**

Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket. Mycroft’s help made him feel a bit better, but as he said earlier to John, this was only temporary.

Sherlock’s head snapped to the door when he heard steps on the stairs.

The door opened.

Mary came in, her eyebrows rising at the sight before her.

“Who let you in?” Sherlock asked. This was his domain. He would not bow down to her.

“Mrs. Hudson,” she answered, eyeing John and Billie. “Are they all right?”

“They’re fine, just tired.” His eyes narrowed. “You know why John’s worn out.”

She quietly shut the door behind her.

John shifted at the sound, but didn’t wake up.

“Let’s discuss in the kitchen,” Sherlock said.

“Fine,” she smiled.

Sherlock got up and they went into the kitchen. He felt much more comfortable in his flat, and with the knowledge that John was on his side. He couldn’t get too cocky, though. She was still dangerous.

“Why are you here?” he asked, glaring.

“John wasn’t answering his phone, and I got concerned. I knew he would be here,” she said pointedly.

“Yes, he came to his friend’s house. What a shock!” his eyes widened in faux-surprise.

She glowered at him. “He’s been out of the house for close to two hours. What have you two been doing here?”

Sherlock turned his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what have you been doing without me here?” she crossed her arms. “You can’t have just been talking.”

Sherlock blinked in genuine surprise. “You think I did something with your husband?” he asked in a whisper.

“Don’t act as if you wouldn’t,” she whispered back, taking a step toward him.

“There’s a baby here!” he said, affronted. “What, do you think John sat Billie down and we went and shagged on the floor?” It was probably the first time in his life he said _shagged,_ but he was actually offended.

“You would take whatever he gave you,” she accused.

That...was true, but he had standards. “John came over to let me see Billie,” he said hotly. “It’s not my fault your unstable marriage is clouding your judgment.”

Her right eyelid twitched. “Unstable because of _you,”_ she pointed a finger at him.

“ _Me?_ I’m not the one who threatened to kidnap that child!” he pointed out into the sitting room.

She stood up straight as a rod, breaths heavy but controlled. “John told you.”

“Of course he bloody told me. Listen to me right now, Mary Morstan,” he intentionally used her maiden name, and took a step forward, leaving little distance between them. Their eyes shot daggers at each other. “You will not harm that child in any way,” he growled, “and you cannot keep me from seeing her. John is an adult; he _chose_ to come over here with Billie. You can’t stop him. She’s his daughter, too. If you _dare_ attempt to run off with her, I guarantee John and I will hunt you down with my brother’s aid.”

Mary looked like she was on the brink of explosion. Her face was red with anger, his hands balled into fists, her blue eyes piercing. She clearly had not thought John would tell Sherlock about her threats. Maybe she wasn’t as smart as Sherlock thought. “I wouldn’t hurt her,” she snarled. “I do love my daughter, Sherlock. But, you will not take John from me.”

“John can do whatever he wants.” Their faces were close, noses almost touching, and Sherlock was disgusted with that. “If he ever decides to leave you, it will be your fault.”

Something shifted in her demeanor. The boiling anger cooled, and a hard, calculating look took over her face. “I see.”

Sherlock did not like that look. That wasn’t the look of defeat. That was the look of adjusting a plan. He opened his mouth, but they were both startled by Billie crying.

They went into the sitting room and saw John, yawning and blinking, sitting up and rubbing her back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her. He looked up, and his eyes widened when he saw Mary.

“Hello, dear,” she smiled.

“Hi, Mary,” her greeted, sleepy and confused.

Billie kept crying.

“I think she needs a diaper change,” John said.

“Where’s her bag?” Mark asked.

“I left it in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Fetch it for me?”

She pursed her lips, hesitant to leave John and Sherlock alone again. “Of course.” She went downstairs.

John looked at him. “What the fuck is she doing here?” he tried to whisper over Billie’s cries.

Sherlock shrugged. “John, I texted my brother about what she’s threatened to do,” he said quickly. “He’s on it.”

Some relief washed over his face. “Really?”

They heard her coming back upstairs. She came in with a diaper bag. “Set her down on the floor, John.”

Sherlock watched them change Billie’s diaper, and Mary did really seem gentle and caring toward her child. It seemed to him that, if Mary did manage to run off with Billie, she would do just that, but not actually harm her. Mary wanted to keep a tight grip on John, but not harm her child. She wanted a happy little family with John Watson, and Sherlock got in the way of that.

Sherlock’s mind flashed back to that calculating expression. She could be planning to kill him, get him out of the way.

He blinked and looked back at them, and John was putting Billie’s jumpsuit back on. “There we are,” he smiled at her. “No more crying, okay?”

Mary took the soiled diaper and threw it in a trash bin in the kitchen, washing her hands.

John and Sherlock shared a look, but kept quiet.

“I was wondering where you were, John,” Mary came back in. “I came back from the shops and you two were gone.”

“Thought it would be nice to give her some fresh air,” John said, standing and retrieving the carrier he had placed on the table. “I figured she’d like to see Mrs. Hudson and her Uncle Sherlock, too.”

 _Uncle Sherlock._ That stung. He looked at John, but realized he was just saying that for Mary.

John strapped the carrier back onto his body and picked up Billie, putting her back in so she was strapped to his chest. She kicked her feet happily.

“Well, text me next time,” she said. “I was getting worried. We should get going, John. We should get out of Sherlock’s hair.”

Sherlock hated how she even bothered to put up a front. “I’m really not bothered,” he said, “but I imagine this has been a long day for Billie.”

“Right,” she smiled.

John looked wary. “Erm, okay. Yeah, let’s get going.” He looked at Sherlock. “I’ll talk to you later. Tell Mrs. Hudson I said ‘goodbye’?”

“Sure,” he folded his hands behind his back, sensing Mary’s eyes on him.

John took Billie’s hand between two of his fingers. “Say ‘goodbye’?”

Her hand simply tightened around John’s finger and she stared absently at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled at her. “See you later, Billie.”

“I’ll see you around, Sherlock,” Mary said smoothly.

He nodded to her, and the three of them left the flat.

Sherlock looked around the empty room and sighed. Mary wasn’t going down without a fight, he knew that much. Sherlock just had to figure out what she was planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh Mary's going to do bad stuff.  
> You may have noticed I removed the "Infidelity" tag from this story. That's because I think I've actually figured out when these fuckers are going to kiss :)
> 
> OH AND THANK YOU FOR GETTING THIS TO 200 KUDOS!!!!


	7. Getting on the Same Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary surprises them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments!  
> I know there are really scary things going on in the world right now, and seeing your kudos and comments gives me a little brightness in my day, and I hope my story could do the same for you. Just wanted to put that out there.  
> HERE WE GO GUYS. THEY'RE FINALLY GETTING SOMEWHERE

The next evening, Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a text message from John.

**Hey, can I come over tomorrow? I need to talk to you. Something kind of weird but kind of good happened. -J**

Sherlock had no idea what to make of that message. _Of course you can come over. Is anything wrong? SH_

**No, not really. I don’t think so. It might actually be good.**

That didn’t clear things up at all. Still, John’s gut instinct was rarely wrong, and if he thought something good was happening, then Sherlock had good reason to believe him.

The next day, John came with Billie, strapped to his chest again, diaper bag in one of his hands, around noon. This time, she had a little black hat on and a fuzzy pink jacket and jeans and pink shoes.

His lips quirked up into a grin. “Good morning,” he said to them.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John greeted, shutting the door behind him.

Billie was sucking on her fist.

“Uh,” John cleared his throat, “so, I don’t know what to make of this.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, John,” he said, his nerves making him slightly annoyed.

John gave him a look. “Sherlock.”

“Continue, John,” he folded his hands behind his back.

Billie made a soft sound around her fist.

John gave him a half-hearted glare. “A couple days ago, I left with Mary, and she was unusually quiet on the way home, and didn’t talk to me much for a few hours. I knew something had to be on her mind, but didn’t want to start a conversation with her. When we went to bed, she turned to me, and said, ‘This is never going to work, is it?’”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, and John nodded. “That was basically my reaction,” he said. “I told her, no, ’cause I don’t love her.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose even higher, going beneath his fringe. “You told her that?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“No, no,” Sherlock said weakly, pulse hammering in his throat. “I just didn’t expect you to be so...forward with her.” He was pleased about it, though.

John huffed, but he didn’t seem very upset. “I just got sick of it, you know? After actually telling you what was going on, actually getting the words out? I guess it truly hit me how fucked up it all is. It was kind of liberating, in a way, to finally tell someone.”

“I wish you’d told me sooner. But, what about Mary?” he pried. “How did she react?”

“She seemed like she was expecting it, honestly. She just nodded and said we’d talk about it in the morning, and went to sleep.” He sounded as confused as Sherlock felt. “That was weird, too, and I was worried she, I don’t know, wanted to lull me into a false sense of security and take Billie that night, but she didn’t. The next morning, we talked. I suspected you two had some sort of discussion, and she confirmed it.” He stopped. “What did you say to her?” he asked.

“I told her I knew what she was doing and if she ever attempted to harm or kidnap Billie, she would have to answer to us and my brother,” he said truthfully. He left out the part about Mary accusing Sherlock of having an affair with her husband. So, he was telling the truth of what they argued over, just not the whole truth. “I also told her that you wanted to leave her, it would be her fault.”

John breathed a laugh through his nose. “Damn right. God, I wish I had been awake to hear that conversation. How did she react then?”

“She was angry, for sure, but then calmed down suddenly. I wanted to talk to her more, but Billie started crying, and you woke up.”

John made a humming sound in his throat. “So, she got calm then? Maybe she didn’t think you would get involved? But, she should have known I’d tell you eventually.”

“She should have known I would get Mycroft involved,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah. I--Did you actually call Mycroft about this?”

“I sent him a text. He should know what she was planning to do.”

“I agree. Thanks for that. But--” there was a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows. “I don’t get the way she was acting at all.”

“I don’t either,” Sherlock agreed. “What did she say the next morning?”

“She said she saw no point in trying to, and these are her words, ‘save our marriage anymore.’ Yeah, because threatening to kidnap my child was a great way to do that!”

Billie whimpered.

“Sorry,” John mumbled, wrapping his arms around her and bouncing her. “I’ve got to stop talking about Mary with her around,” he joked.

Sherlock didn’t smile. Something was not right about this at all. “So, Mary admitted your marriage is beyond salvaging,” (which felt amazing to say out loud), “and then?”

John shrugged as best as he could with Billie strapped to him. “She was just so calm, like she was accepting defeat, and said I don’t have to stay with her anymore.”

“You don’t?” he asked warily. He wanted to feel joy, but he couldn’t believe it. “So, after all that, she’s letting you leave?” he asked dubiously.

John shook his head, incredulous. “That’s what’s bothering me. I want to get Billie away from her, but I don’t trust her.”

“With very good reason,” Sherlock asserted. “She’s letting you take Billie?”

“Not exactly. She agreed to a divorce, but wants joint custody. I want full custody. I don’t trust Mary not to take off with Billie on the days she would have her.”

“Mycroft could get you full custody,” he assured.

John didn’t look very pleased. “That would be great, but that could make Mary angry and she’ll try to kidnap her anyway.” He looked lost. “Christ, I don’t see an easy way out of this. What do I do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock wanted to comfort John, but he, for the first time, was just as clueless as he. “I...don’t know.” He looked away from John’s gaze and walked over to the window, just for something to do. Mary had them stuck, and she had to know it.

“You don’t know?” John asked, a hint of anger bubbling in his tone. “Sherlock, I can’t sit around and do nothing. I’m coming to you for any sort of direction--”

“I don’t _know,_ John!” he snapped, his hands balling into fists. He leaned his head forward, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. His head was starting to pound. John was right; even after a divorce, it didn’t matter how much custody Mary would or would not get--she could still find a way to hurt them. Sherlock wanted John and Billie here, at Baker Street, so he could keep a watchful eye over them. But, Mary could try to hurt him as a form of revenge. She knew Sherlock was in love with John, and firmly believed he was the sole reason why her marriage crumbled. She hated him for it. She could hurt him. The image of Mary breaking in and killing him in the night flashed back into his mind. Was he being irrational? Could she really do that? His thoughts were spiraling out of control, making less sense by the second, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John’s concerned voice was right behind him. “Jesus, what is it?”

Sherlock realized his head was in his hands. When did that happen? He lowered his hands and turned around, noticing the baby carrier and diaper bag was on John’s armchair, and Billie was propped against the back of Sherlock’s chair. He must have really gotten lost in thought.

“Sherlock,” John looked at him with a stern gaze, his doctor voice emerging, “you need to breathe. We can talk in a minute, but breathe.”

His chest did feel tight. He took a few deep, slow breaths through his nose. His pulse gradually slowed, and he mumbled, “I’m sorry, John. I want to help, but she’s always one step ahead of me.” He hadn’t felt so much like a failure since the era of Moriarty. He was a _genius._ He was supposed to use his brain to make use of himself and help others, and he couldn’t figure out how to protect his loved ones.

John’s hand was still on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. He looked guilty. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your problem--”

“Yes it is,” he cut him off immediately. “This is absolutely my problem, John.”

John swallowed, removing his hand. “What just happened? Why did you freak out like that?”

Sherlock looked down, face coloring. This was humiliating, but John opened himself up a couple days ago. Sherlock owed him the same. “She frightens me,” he confessed in a small voice.

He kept his gaze down, but he heard John react with an intake of breath.

“You are?” he asked.

“She tried to kill me.” He wished he had his dressing gown on, so he could wrap it around himself like a security blanket, but he only wore a suit.

“I know, but I didn’t think…” John trailed off. After a pregnant, uncomfortable silence, John apologized again, “I’m sorry. I’m being selfish. I didn’t think about how you felt--”

“John,” Sherlock said in exasperation, looking up, “how many times must I tell you? I want to help you. I want to remove her from your life more than anything.”

John bit the inside of his cheek. “Have you always been afraid of her?” he asked softly.

Sherlock resisted the urge to look away again. His face had to be red. “It’s increased within the past few weeks. I believe she blames me for your impending divorce.”

John put his hands in his pockets, clearing his throat. “I think so, too.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Has she said anything in particular to indicate that?”

“Like I said before, she wasn’t happy when the airplane turned around, and--yeah.” The tips of John’s ears turned pink.

 _He’s still hiding something._ No, there were more important things at hand. Sherlock had to protect them from Mary in every little way he could. John would definitely want to move out of there, but Sherlock didn’t like the idea of John and Billie living alone in a dingy flat. “Stay here,” he blurted out.

John cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“You and Billie--you can stay here. I know it’s not really a solution to your problem, but I could help. With Billie.” For god’s sake, he wasn’t this awkward when he first invited John to move in with him. Then again, Sherlock hadn’t been in love with him then.

John blinked a couple times. “You want that?”

“Of course,” he said briskly.

John gave him a lopsided smile. “Really? You want a baby here?”

“She’s not any baby, she’s Billie.”

John’s lopsided smile widened into a toothy grin. “Yeah? Are you sure, Sherlock?”

“Absolutely. You can move back into your old room and keep Billie in there. With the situation with Mary, we shouldn’t leave her alone.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, grin dimming slightly at the mention of his wife’s name, “you’re absolutely right.” His eyes softened. “You want me back?”

God, John’s wording would be the death of him. “I always want you back.”

John’s lips parted slightly, and he stared at Sherlock. His hand rose, and he cupped Sherlock’s jaw. “Thank you, Sherlock,” his voice was rough. “And I didn’t get to say it, but you look so much better without that awful scruff.”

“Oh, please,” he rolled his eyes, fending off another fierce blush, “it was nowhere near as atrocious as your mustache.”

“Oi,” John glared at him, and Sherlock chuckled. They shared a lighthearted moment for the first time in months, looking at each other with John’s hand on Sherlock’s jaw, thumb moving across the smooth skin.

“Is Billie okay?” Sherlock asked.

John turned around, looking at the chair. “Yeah, I think she’s fallen asleep against the arm of the chair. Ah, yeah. She did. I’m glad.” He turned back to Sherlock, hand slowly falling to his side, eyes flickering down to somewhere on Sherlock’s chest. “I’m sorry I brought Mary into our lives.”

“Stop being sorry,” Sherlock insisted. “You didn’t know she was like that when you proposed.”

“Did you know?” he asked. “Did you ever see her for who she really is?”

He bit his lower lip. “I knew she was a liar the night I met her,” he revealed, “but I didn’t know she was that _much_ of a liar.”

John’s eyes flickered up to his, confused. “You would send away all my girlfriends, naming every tiny reason why I shouldn’t date them, so why didn’t you do that with Mary?”

He felt a chill roll down his spine. He looked straight at John. “I already caused you enough grief. I didn’t want to get in the way of your happiness, and I thought Mary was a right fit for you. By the time I found out how dangerous she was, well, it was too late.”

The corners of John’s mouth twisted unhappily. “But even after that, you tried to convince me Mary saved you, and the shot was surgery. Sherlock, that's bullshit. You know it, and I’ve known it since the moment you said it. Why did you want me to stay with her then?”

Anxiety curled in his stomach. “I still thought she was what you wanted. You’re addicted to danger, and she’s dangerous.”

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’d never want to be with someone who hurt you!” he raised his voice. He looked back quickly to Billie, but she was still asleep. He lowered his voice back to its normal volume. “You wanted me to go back with Mary, the woman who tried to kill you, just for my happiness?”

“Yes,” he said, voice thick with the wave of emotions he was desperately holding back.

John huffed a harsh breath out of his mouth. “You’ve got to stop doing that, Sherlock. I don’t want you to ever sacrifice your well-being for me. I--” he shook his head, roughly rubbing his eyes. “I care about you too much for that.”

Sherlock’s throat was so tight he couldn’t swallow. “John,” he croaked.

“Come here,” John said and hugged him, one hand around his neck, the other arm around his shoulder, like on his wedding day.

They never hugged this much, but Sherlock needed it badly. He shook in John’s arms. “I’ve done nothing but mess up,” his voice quivered. “Ever since I returned, Mary has outsmarted me every single time. I hate it, John. I don’t want her to run our lives anymore. I don’t want her to hurt you, or Billie--”

“It’s going to be okay, Sherlock,” John said in his ear. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry earlier. We’ll be okay. We always win in the end.” He pulled back, but had both arms around Sherlock’s back. “We’ll do it together. The two of us against the rest of the world, remember?”

Sherlock gave a wobbly smile. “I remember.” His smile dropped. He needed to get this off his chest. He was going to break down if he didn’t. “I think she might try to kill me again before she tries to hurt either of you.”

John’s expression turned to stone. “You think so?”

“Since she blames me for the end of your marriage, yes. She tried to kill me for discovering her secret, even when I offered help. Do you think she’d let this go so easily? That’s why I want you and Billie here, John, but I don’t trust her. Mary suddenly agreeing to a divorce does not sit well with me at all.”

John’s eyes turned bright and fierce. “She will not harm you, Sherlock,” he nearly growled. “I promise you that. You can’t--” he sucked in a breath, releasing it in a short huff, “you can’t die again.”

Sherlock wanted to be reassured by John’s words, but another ripple of fear made him tremble.

“None of that,” John murmured, hugging him again.

Sherlock hugged back, his chest heaving. As he hugged John, something dawned on him: this was his fault. If he weren’t in love with John, Mary wouldn’t hate him, and threaten John and Billie by proxy. His heart beat in his throat.

“This is my fault,” he whispered.

“What?”

“If it weren’t for me, Mary wouldn’t have done any of this.” He stupid god damn emotions did nothing but hurt the people around him.

 _“No,”_ John said firmly, holding him closer. “That’s Mary’s voice in your head. Nothing is your fault. Why would this be your fault?”

He swallowed, shame washing over him. “Because she’s always known. Since your wedding, at least.”

John pulled back, confusion written all over his face. “What are you talking about? Hey,” he touched his cheek, “calm down. Just tell me what you mean.”

He closed his eyes, gulping, his skin burning beneath John’s hand. John had the right to know why this was happening. He deserved the full truth. Sherlock saw that now. He was afraid John would get angry with him, because his big, stupid heart caused them so much pain. But then, Sherlock remembered Lestrade’s words, just a few days ago. Dare he hope? “She knows how I feel about you,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

John’s hand stiffened on his cheek.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes.

“What?” John whispered.

Sherlock’s face contorted in pain. “I’m sorry, John. I never meant to feel this way, but it just...sort of happened.” That had to have been the worst confession of all time.

John didn’t move his hand. He didn’t move at all. He didn’t speak.

Sherlock risked opening his eyes.

John’s chest was heaving, his mouth open, eyes huge and bright with moisture. “You,” his voice was scratchy. His mouth closed, he swallowed, and shakily went on, “Sherlock, you…” His hand went higher on Sherlock’s face, thumb against his cheekbone. “Tell me, Sherlock: what does she know? Please tell me, Sherlock. I need to hear it,” he pleaded.

John didn’t seem disgusted or angry at all. Alarm bells went off in his head. Was Lestrade really right? Sherlock wanted to do this before he got on the plane all those months ago, but fear and insecurity took over. Now, with John cupping his cheek and begging to hear what he had to say, Sherlock could do it. “Mary knows I love you,” he confessed.

John gasped, and before Sherlock could react in any way, John’s mouth was on his. Instead of freezing in shock, Sherlock was so relieved that all of the tension in his muscles melted away and he kissed back, his right hand cradling the back of John’s head, steadying himself with his other hand on John’s hip. He kissed back as best as he knew how, sliding his lips with John’s, remembering to breathe through his nose.

John’s thumb stroked his cheekbone, and his other hand played with the curls at his nape. He opened his mouth and Sherlock did the same, deepening the kiss. John’s lips were warm and soft on his, like a blanket, and Sherlock finally felt like his anxiety was truly going away. John was kissing him, how could he not feel better? His heart fluttered. _John was kissing him._

John lightly sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip, drawing a small, involuntary moan from his throat. John broke the kiss, and they panted, breathing in each other’s breath, dazed. John’s lips were red and his hair was mussed from Sherlock’s hand. He was beautiful.

John stroked his cheekbone again, eyes shining with passion Sherlock never dreamed of receiving. “I love you, too, Sherlock,” he whispered hoarsely. “I really do.”

Within a second, Sherlock’s vision went blurry, and John had a watery smile. “Don’t you start,” he laughed. “I’ll start crying if you do!”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh, and a tear ran down his face. He couldn’t believe any of this was happening. John said he loved him. John said he loved him. John said he loved him. John loved him. John loved him. _John_ loved _him._ He ducked his head, hiding his crimson cheeks, resting his forehead on John’s shoulder. They laughed through sobs they refused to acknowledge, arms tight around each other. Sherlock breathed him in, John’s cologne filling his nostrils. If John loved him, Mary probably knew that, too. Things were becoming clearer.

“Does Mary know about you?” he asked when their laughs died down, lifting his head.

John still had a trace of a smile. “She does. She’s known since before you came back.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said dreamily. “I should sound less pleased, shouldn’t I? But, god, Sherlock, you really feel that way?”

“I do,” he said. He felt like a giant weight was lifted off his shoulders. “I’ve loved you for a long time, John.”

John’s stare was filled with enough adoration to make Sherlock’s heart feel full. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Why did you never say anything?”

“You were married,” he explained simply.

John snorted. “Okay, but still.”

“Why didn’t you?” he countered.

John cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you felt that way. I always thought I was seeing things, misinterpreting signals and such. You always said you hated love and sentiment.”

“I was afraid to feel this way,” he recognized. He pressed his lips together, placing his hand over John’s on his face. “I never allowed myself to feel any of this. I always thought it was too dangerous.” The light mood diminished. “I was right. Mary sees me as a threat because she knows I love you.”

“And she knows I love _you_ ,” John said. He took Sherlock’s hand in his, lowering their arms. “Maybe she wants a divorce because she knows she lost control of the situation,” he said, thumb stroking the top of his hand.

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. “Perhaps,” he murmured, saving the image to his brain.

John chuckled. “You listening, Sherlock?”

“Of course,” he looked up.

John smirked and leaned forward, kissing him again. Sherlock didn’t think it was possible, but it was even better the second time. Their kiss was slow, deep, and turned wet when John’s tongue slid across his bottom lip. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and opened his mouth. John’s tongue slowly licked inside, hot and wet inside of his mouth. Sherlock stiffened, and John’s tongue slowly retreated, turning the kiss softer. He pulled back, pressed a firm kiss to his mouth, then kissed his cheek, his jaw, and moved up to his ear. “So glad you shaved,” John whispered in his ear, “you’re gorgeous as you are.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped and his knees felt weak. “John,” he gasped weakly. John kissed below his ear, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around his back, head tipping back and eyes closing. _God,_ John’s mouth felt good.

Billie’s cries made them jump apart.

John jogged over to the chair, and breathed a sigh of relief. “She’s okay,” he told Sherlock. “I think she’s just hungry.”

Sherlock was still processing everything. John kissed him. John loved him. John called him _gorgeous._ He thought John’s love was from his personality only, but John called him _gorgeous._

John got a bottle from the bag, snorting at Sherlock. “You all right over there?”

“Yes,” he said, monotone.

John laughed and held Billie, sitting in Sherlock’s chair, putting the bottle to her lips. Sure enough, she started sucking and quieted down. “There you go,” he smiled down at her.

Sherlock walked over to them, wanting to be near John.

John smiled sympathetically. “Sorry, Sherlock. She kinda ruined the mood.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, and he really didn’t. “John. We need to think about what we’re going to do.”

“I know,” he said, soft grin falling. “I want to be here with you. She’s safer here, and I just want to be here. That’s okay?”

“I want you here,” he said. “You belong here.”

John hummed. “Yeah, I do. I’m--glad we’re on the same page now.”

Sherlock kneeled in front of the chair. “Me, too.” He looked up at John and Billie. John loved him. John was coming back. He and Billie were going to live with him. “I love you,” he said.

John beamed. “So you’ve said.” His smile turned wistful. “I wish we had figured this out a long time ago.”

“I do, too,” Sherlock agreed. “But, if you never met Mary, Billie wouldn’t be here. If we can find peace, then it’ll be worth everything we’ve been through.”

John blinked rapidly. “That’s true.” He looked down at Billie.

Expressing emotions never came easily to Sherlock, but on the high of John’s kisses, he said, “I’ll do everything to ensure we can find that peace, with no Mary, no more threats: just the three of us here, in Baker Street.”

John looked down at him. “God, I want to kiss you.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “You can after you’re done with Billie.”

John removed the empty bottle from her lips and set it next to his hip, lifting Billie up on his shoulder, turning her around, and burping her. “So, Billie and I move in here. Then what? We live in fear for the rest of our lives?”

Sherlock’s good mood decreased. “No. I still don’t trust her to simply get a divorce and leave us to live our lives. She must have something in mind, some sort of revenge plot.”

“And she’s not laying a bloody finger on you,” John said darkly.

Sherlock felt touched. He liked this protective side of John. “We need to be vigilant. We should lock all of the doors and windows at night. Mycroft and his men are on it, but we must live in anticipation, because she will act in some way.”

John sighed heavily. “Waiting’s the worst part.”

“It always is.”

John sat Billie down in his lap, holding her in both of his hands. Her dark blue eyes blinked at Sherlock, and she stuffed her fist into her mouth and started sucking. He smiled at her.

“I love how much you like her,” John said.

“I don’t just like her,” he glanced up, “I love her.”

John’s eyes became bright again and he rubbed his eyes roughly. “Jesus, you have to stop making me cry today.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock apologized, but he was smiling.

John bit his lip. “I’m going to sound like an awful father, but I really want to put her down and kiss you.”

Sherlock giggled nervously. “I can certainly wait."

John stood up with Billie in his arms. “I don’t expect Mary to carry out whatever she’s planning the day after she agreed to a divorce, do you?”

“No,” Sherlock said, eyebrows furrowing. “I think she wants us to think we’re safe and catch us off guard.”

“Right. So, I think it’s safe if Billie visits Mrs. Hudson for a little while, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s toes wiggled in excitement. “I think she’ll be fine.”

“Great,” John winked, and walked across the room, leaving the flat and going downstairs.

Sherlock stood up, brushing the dust off his trousers. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. John was the first kiss he ever had that wasn’t for a case, and the thought of John wanting to spend time alone with him, kissing him, filled with giddy anxiety. (Was that possible? Who cares?)

John came back upstairs alone. “Mrs. Hudson was more than pleased to watch her for a bit. I told her to lock her doors, just in case.” John shut the door behind him, locking it.

“That’s good,” Sherlock said, rocking on his heels.

“It is,” his voice lowered. He walked over to Sherlock, took his hands, and kissed him sweetly. Sherlock’s hands turned sweaty in his. John broke the short kiss, rubbing their noses together, and Sherlock felt warm everywhere. He didn’t expect to enjoy something so simple, and he nuzzled back, too happy to feel ridiculous.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, kissing him gently, their lips making wet sounds, “oh, Sherlock,” _kiss,_ “we’ve waited so long.” _Kiss._ “Let’s have some time to ourselves," he murmured against his lips. "I’m sorry you’ve been so on edge lately. Let me help you relax. Let me love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GET READY FOR SEX.  
> And lol yeah Mary's not going down quietly.


	8. Riding the Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you all so much for getting this story past 300 kudos!!! I seriously love getting kudos and comments from you guys. It really means a lot and is what keeps me writing. Thank you :)  
> Here's the sex chapter! I mean, they're definitely going to have sex again in this story, don't you worry, but this chapter is basically just awkward sex. Woo.

Sherlock almost whined, but he caught himself just in time. “John, we--we should go to my room,” he blurted out. He cleared his throat delicately. “That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

John chuckled. “Yeah, it is. Lead the way.”

It felt surreal for Sherlock to take John to his bedroom. Less than half an hour ago, all of his feelings were bottled up, ready to burst, choking him, and now this. He didn’t even know what they were going to do. He knew what happened during sex, obviously, but he had no experience. He was afraid John would get impatient if he didn’t know what to do. But, John wouldn’t act like that, would he?

“Earth to Sherlock,” John waved a hand in front of his face.

Sherlock came out of his head. They were in his bedroom, John standing in front of him, the sunlight from the windows shining behind him.

“You sure you want to do this?” John asked.

“What exactly is ‘this’?” He wanted to touch John for years, and yet now that his fantasies were turning into reality, he was freezing up.

John shrugged. “Whatever you want. I’m not picky. It’s, er,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “it’s not like I’ve got a lot of experience with men. So we could, um, learn together?” He winced. “God, that sounded stupid.”

“No, it didn’t,” Sherlock impulsively grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “It didn’t sound stupid at all. That sounds--good.”

John squeezed back. He stepped closer and kissed his lips firmly. He let go of Sherlock’s hand and wrapped an arm around his waist. “How about,” he spoke in a voice like velvet, “we just go on the bed, kiss a bit, and see what feels good, okay?”

Sherlock’s skin broke out in gooseflesh at the deep timbre of his voice. “All right.”

John stepped back. “I’m about to be really not sexy right now, but I realized I still have my shoes and jacket on.”

Sherlock snickered at the sudden change of mood. “Take them off, then.”

John took off his jacket and shoes, and Sherlock sat down on his bed, legs crossed, sitting up straight, hands clasped together. He pressed his sweating palms together. This was it. They were going to have sex. He was going to see John naked. His mouth watered at the mere thought. He held himself back for so long; he wasn’t sure where to even begin.

Barefoot and clad in a dark blue jumper and jeans, John joined him on the other side of the bed. His lips twitched with effort to hold back a smirk. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, still tense. He was getting angry at himself. He dreamed of this for _years_ , literal years, and his stupid brain was betraying him. He couldn’t stop thinking of everything and nothing at all. He needed to get in the moment, give John everything he had. He wanted to kiss John everywhere, hold him, watch John’s face when he climaxed--

John cupped his jaw and turned his face, pressing their lips together in a tender kiss, and the clutter in Sherlock’s mind melted away. He slowly turned his body to face John, their knees brushing, his hand slowly coming up to cup the back of John’s neck. John leaned forward during the kiss, coming closer to Sherlock. He slowly coaxed Sherlock’s mouth open, and their kissing turned into light sucking, Sherlock’s lower lip tingling from John’s mouth. Sherlock tentatively took John’s upper lip into his mouth, a soft groan coming from deep within his chest. John’s mouth was so hot that he felt his cock start to stir with interest. John’s other hand rested upon Sherlock’s shoulder, and he gently pushed him down onto the mattress, on his side. They broke the kiss with a wet smack, and Sherlock saw that John was lying on his side, too.

John was gazing at him with glistening, swollen lips. He looked _divine._ Sherlock’s pulse hammered in his throat. “John.”

John kissed the corner of his mouth. “Have you any idea how you look right now?”

“I was about to say the same to you.”

John’s smirked against his skin. “You’re nice. _You_ ,” he kissed his jaw, “are bloody beautiful,” he said into Sherlock’s neck, kissing the pale, sensitive skin.

Sherlock lifted his chin, allowing John better access. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he breathed, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m speaking the truth,” he mumbled between kisses, lips wet.

“You’re…” He trailed off for a moment. John was beautiful, but Sherlock was unsure if John would like to be called that. “You’re stunning,” he said instead.

John’s lips paused. “Compared to you? Yeah, right,” he tried joking.

“Nonsense. You’re the most handsome man I know.”

John lifted his head, disbelief written across his face. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” he pouted, “why would I lie?”

John’s mouth opened, a deep blush settled upon his cheeks, and then he went back to kissing the side of Sherlock’s neck. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, pressing their bodies close together, touching from chests to thighs to toes.

Sherlock knew John was a man of action, and that pulling him close and kissing him was John’s way of responding to Sherlock’s praise. Sherlock had the vague feeling John didn’t have many people compliment his looks. Certainly not Mary. He wanted to make John feel adored.

Before he could think about it more, John sucked his neck, and then he bit down.

Sherlock’s cock twitched and he inhaled sharply, “John.”

John stopped kissing and looked at him, his head sharing a pillow with Sherlock’s. His thumb ran over Sherlock’s red lips. “You look picture-perfect right now,” he told him reverently. “Seriously. You--you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock exhaled out of his open mouth, and clutched John’s shirt. “As are you,” he said softly. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s face and kissed him deeply, mouth insistent and urgent. Sherlock was glad John was kissing him, because they needed to be close, and this was a way to hide the moisture threatening to form in his eyes. No one ever called him that before, and this wasn’t just anyone: this was _John Watson._

Sherlock clutched John’s shoulders, pressing himself as close to John as possible. Their legs tangled together, and as John’s tongue licked inside of his mouth, Sherlock felt himself getting hard. Without even thinking, he hooked his leg over John’s hip, his crotch pressing against John’s groin. John must have known what he was trying to do, because he shifted up a little so their hardening bulges touched, and they moaned into each other’s mouths.

“You okay?” John asked into their kiss.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, breath hitching when John’s hips thrust against his. Sherlock was getting the hang of kissing John, he thought dimly. Both of his hands came up to cup his face, his thumbs stroking his cheeks. He pulled back for a second to breathe, then kissed him, open-mouthed, tongue meeting John’s. With his eyes closed, everything felt sensual and warm and wet, and he kissed John as deeply as he could, hips subconsciously making small, bucking movements. John let out a small, deep moan, which went straight to Sherlock’s cock, causing him to groan and thrust more. He could do this all day, kiss John, make him moan and feel good. _He_ was making John feel good, and that thought alone made him dizzy. He wanted to pour every single ounce of his love into his kisses. He wanted John to know how much he utterly adored him, yet had difficulty expressing it all. This was all so new. He hoped that, for now, his kisses were enough. Sherlock’s thumbs stroked his cheeks again, and a soft whimper came from John’s mouth.

Sherlock quickly got harder, rubbing his clothed bulge against John, each jolt of pleasure sending shivers down his spine. In the back of his mind, he thought that maybe he was getting hard a lot faster than John, but how could he not when John was in his arms, warm and solid and real? He felt limited, though, like he couldn’t fully get what he wanted. What was wrong? His cock pressed against his zipper. Ah, that was it: clothes.

“John,” he mumbled into the kiss. “John?”

“Hm?” he hummed, lifting his head, looking completely dazed, a dreamy look on his face.

Sherlock loved that look on him. “Can we…” He chewed his bottom lip. “Get undressed?”

“Fuck, yes,” John growled, licking his lips. “I’ve always wanted to take one of these tight bloody suits off you.”

Sherlock giggled. “You’ve thought about it?”

“Clearly.” John sat up, moving away Sherlock’s leg from his hip. “Why don’t we both get undressed so we can skip all that awkward fumbling?”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped to the obvious tent in John’s jeans. “Good idea,” he said, mouth dry.

John bit his lip, smirking, though there was a hint of nerves underneath. “My eyes are up here, Sherlock,” he joked, but his eyes fell to Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock sat up, too, feeling self-conscious. John kissed his collarbone, fingers unbuttoning his shirt quickly and efficiently. Sherlock could barely think straight with John’s mouth sucking his clavicle, and his head fell back with a moan. Buttons free, John pushed his shirt off, and Sherlock took the opportunity to pull John’s jumper over his head, only to see a vest underneath.

“Must you wear so many layers?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John snorted and took off his vest, throwing it behind his shoulder. “Happy?”

Sherlock gaped at his bare chest, eyes roaming over his gorgeously masculine figure. “Yes.” John was still fairly muscular from the army and all of the running around he did on cases, with a dusting of blond hair on his chest, getting thicker beneath his navel, disappearing below his belt. He wanted to tell John he was gorgeous, but the words refused to come. He stared and placed his hand over John’s heart, feeling the bare skin on his palm, and the steady rhythm of his heart. 

John seemed to get the message, though, because his cheeks turned pink. “Come on, you,” he said, hiding his face in Sherlock’s neck and kissing it. Sherlock pulled his head back up to kiss his mouth, his tongue tracing the seam of John’s lips. They undressed each other as they kissed, and once Sherlock was completely naked, he tensed.

John felt him freeze and stopped kissing him. They looked at each other’s naked bodies, eyes raking over their chests, muscular thighs, and hard cocks. John seemed to be in as much awe of him as Sherlock was in awe of John.

They looked up simultaneously. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, it dawned upon them that they were going to have sex, they wanted each other, and they were in love. They reached for each other’s faces, kissing hard.

John’s hard wrapped around his erection, squeezing with _just_ the right amount of pressure, and Sherlock gasped. “John, that feels--!”

“Lie down,” John whispered against his lips.

Sherlock obeyed, lying on his back. His cock bobbed against his stomach and he closed his legs, face burning. It was _obscene._

John placed his hands on Sherlock’s knees and spread them apart, exposing him. “Don’t hide, Sherlock,” he said. He eyed him hungrily. “God, I need to fucking touch you.”

Sherlock licked his lips gazed at the thick patch of golden hair above John’s cock. He frowned when he saw that John wasn’t as hard as he was. Was he too eager?

But then John started kissing his chest, mouth leaving hot, wet kisses, and then his mouth closed over his nipple.

Sherlock nearly choked, hands flying to grasp John’s hair. “John!”

John sucked his nipple, then his tongue slowly lapped at the sensitive bud, and then his teeth gently nibbled. Sherlock’s feet shuffled on the bed, toes curling. “Ah!” his hips bucked forward, cock throbbing. John's hand cupped his sack and slowly smoothed up his cock, rubbing his thumb over his tip. Sherlock could barely handle the jolts of pleasure tingling on his hard nipples and prick. He threw an arm over his eyes, his thighs beginning to tremble. "John, please."

John lifted his head, eyes black. “Lie on your side,” he commanded.

Sherlock did, and John lay on his side facing Sherlock. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s prick and Sherlock closed his mouth to muffle his shocked groan. He looked at John’s hand around his hardness. _This was actually happening._ John actually wanted to touch him and make him feel good.

John began stroking him and Sherlock moaned, eyes rolling back. He blinked. He had to focus. John needed to be taken care of, too. “John, what do you want me to do?”

John licked his lips, “I’ve got an idea.” He shifted closer, the head of his cock brushing Sherlock’s. “Like this,” he took his hand and wrapped it around both of their erections.

Sherlock moaned, turning his face into his pillow. John was hot and hard and solid against him, and suddenly it all felt so real. John threw his leg over Sherlock’s hip, and somehow Sherlock's body knew what to do. They rocked their hips, thrusting against each other in the tight, warm hold of Sherlock’s large hand. Sherlock had no idea something so simple could feel so good. They should have done this ages ago. His entire body was hot and covered with a thin layer of sweat. “John!”

“You gorgeous creature,” John groaned, voice husky. His thrusts got faster, cock now fully hard, deep grunts falling from his lips. “Fucking hell, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had trouble keeping his eyes on John’s face. He wanted to see his face in the midst of pleasure, but _fuck,_ this felt good. Their bodies moved in a quick rhythm, the room filled with the sounds of their moans, sighs, and the slick of their cocks sliding together. Pre-come dripped from Sherlock's tip, and he found himself moaning loudly. He bit down on his bottom lip, shutting his eyes.

“No,” John kissed his mouth, “let me hear you.” His hand wrapped around the back of his neck and he tugged on Sherlock’s nape curls.

Sherlock gave a startled moan, the sensation of his hair being pulled shooting straight to his cock. He opened his eyes and was met with John’s heated gaze.

Sherlock wanted to lay his entire body across John’s, touch him from head to toe. He wanted to become one with him and never separate, ever. “ _John_ ,” Sherlock whined.

John closed his mouth with a whimper and hid his face in Sherlock’s neck, hips snapping faster, both of their cocks slick with pre-come.

“No, John,” Sherlock panted, “I want to see you. Please, John,” he babbled, “I want to see you.”

They wanted each other so much for so long, yet were still cautious to let go completely and allow the other to see himself in such a desperate, vulnerable state.

John lifted his head onto Sherlock’s pillow with a groan. “Christ, Sherlock, I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for Mary, for-- _fuck_ \--marrying her. I won’t let any--anything happen to you--”

“No,” Sherlock said shakily against John’s forehead, “don’t John. It’s okay.” He was so fucking hard, he felt like he could burst at any moment. The hot, wet slide of John’s cock against his and the tight hold of his hand was too good, and he couldn’t fend off his orgasm much longer. “It’s not your fault, John,” he kissed John’s forehead, too far gone to worry about what John would think. “None of it i-is. _Mmph!_ I love you, John, god, I love you,” the words spilled from his lips, his balls drawing up. All barriers broken, Sherlock said against John’s skin, “Let go, John, please.”

John’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, and then his eyes shut tightly with a cry, turning his head into the pillow, his hot release spurting all over Sherlock’s cock and hand.

Sherlock gasped sharply and came, startled by John’s sudden climax. He came longer and harder than he ever had in his entire life, tingling pleasure consuming him, a deep, long moan bursting from his chest. He trembled with his release, resting his forehead against John’s, panting, body singing, chest heaving. He just had sex with John. They had been joined, but he still wanted _more._

He blindly wrapped his arms around John and searched for his lips. John held him around his middle and kissed him. Their kisses were wet but languid, no arousal behind them, just the basic need to comfort. Sherlock felt like he needed to be held closer, and he burrowed his face into the crook of John’s neck, squeezing him tighter. His throat felt tight and he felt tears coming on, and yet he didn’t know why. He was happy this happened, and it felt amazing, so why was he so flustered?

John’s chin was above his head, and he kissed Sherlock’s damp curls, but didn’t sound much calmer than Sherlock felt. “Sherlock,” he breathed.

“John.” He kissed John’s shoulder. He gulped, feeling overwhelmed. “Is it always like this?” he asked in a small voice.

John gave a half-hearted laugh. “No, it isn’t. I--” He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head again. “God, Sherlock, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, bringing his head back up to look at John. With their heads on the same pillow, the tips of their noses were almost touching.

John frowned and rubbed his thumb under Sherlock’s right eye. “Hey, it’s all right,” he whispered.

Sherlock was going to question this, but then he saw moisture on John’s thumb. He felt mortified. “I’m sorry,” he ducked his chin.

“No reason to be sorry,” John took his chin and lifted his head. He kissed him tenderly but chastely, a delicate press of lips. “You’re fine. I’m...I feel it, too,” he said roughly. John’s eyes looked wet, and Sherlock knew pointing it out would only upset him.

Sherlock kissed John’s cheek, taking time to rub their noses together like John had done in the sitting room, their lips touching. “John.”

“Sherlock.” He looked down and snickered. “Sorry, I made a bit of a mess.”

Sherlock looked down at his hand and lower abdomen, coated in semen. “At least half of this is mine,” he said, and was suddenly overpowered by a yawn. He blinked in confusion.

John chuckled. “Tired?”

“I’m fine,” he said, which wasn’t very convincing, considering the next long yawn that escaped him.

John yawned. “Fuck, now you’ve got me doing it.”

Sherlock wiped his hand on the duvet.

“That’s unsanitary,” John commented.

“Do you care?”

“No.” John yawned into his hand. He rubbed his eye with a knuckle, letting out a sleepy groan. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Sherlock found this wholly endearing. He felt a strong wave of affection, and he hugged John tightly.

“ _Oof,”_ John grunted. “Um, hi.”

Sherlock held him, his heart thudding heavily with each oxytocin-filled beat. He knew part of what he was feeling now was hormonal, but he wanted to embrace John for the rest of the day. His muscles felt like pudding, and he wanted to bask in the glory of John’s love. Mary was still very much a threat, but Sherlock didn’t want to think of her right now. At the moment, the world outside of the bedroom did not exist. They loved each other. They just had sex. John wanted him.

A long, sleepy, content _mmmm_ came from Sherlock’s throat. “John,” he closed his eyes.

John wrapped his arms around his back and rolled over, putting himself on his back, and Sherlock on top of him.

“Sorry, my shoulder was starting to hurt,” he explained.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, spreading his body over John’s like a blanket, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, and resting his head on John’s good shoulder. John smelled of sweat and the musk of sex, and Sherlock kissed the salty skin of the junction where his neck met his shoulder.

John’s hand dove into his curls, and Sherlock’s eyes fell shut.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” John said, lightly stroking his hair. “I’ve always loved your hair. God, it’s even softer than I thought it’d be.”

It took effort for Sherlock not to start drooling. “Mmm.”

He felt John’s chest move with a giggle. “You like that?”

“Obviously,” he slurred, which sent John into a fit of laughter.

Through the haze of afterglow, a worrying thought snuck into Sherlock’s head. John loved him, and was going to move back into the flat, but did that automatically make them an item? He needed to know. “John?”

“Yeah?”

How to ask his question without sounding like a total moron… “When you move in, will you be taking the room upstairs?”

John cleared his throat, his fingers slowing in Sherlock’s hair. “Do you want me to take the room upstairs?” he asked, uncertain.

“No.”

Sherlock felt him breathe a tiny sigh of relief. “Good. Then I won’t.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled, toes wiggling in happiness.

John petted his hair more, twisting a curl around his finger. “I’m glad to move back here. I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock nuzzled his neck with his nose, heart full. “I’ve missed _you.”_

John kissed his temple. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said to the ceiling.

“Neither can I,” he admitted.

“I meant what I said earlier. I’ll do everything I can to make sure Mary doesn’t touch you ever again,” his voice darkened.

He buried his face in John’s neck, fear prickling the back of his neck. “Can we not talk about her?”

John’s other arm came around his back. “Sorry, sorry. You’re right. We can forget about her for a little while.”

Sherlock hugged John around his middle. “Thank you.”

A few minutes of sleepy silence went by before John spoke again. “I have questions.”

“I have answers,” Sherlock yawned.

“No, really. The past couple months, the way you were, was it all because of your fear of Mary?”

“Didn’t we agree not to talk about her?”

John sighed. “I know, but, please?”

Sherlock sighed. “My fear for your and Billie’s well-being, my fear of Mary, and my unrequited feelings were the cause of my grief. Well, now I know they’re not unrequited.”

“No, they’re not,” John agreed. “I’m...sorry, for having you go through all that, having you there for the wedding, at the hospital after Billie was born and all.”

Sherlock looked up at him, resting his chin on John’s chest, staring intently at him. “You need to stop apologizing, John. You suffered because of her more than I did.”

John frowned. “I’m not the one who she shot. Did it leave a scar?”

Sherlock sat up, knees on each side of John’s hips. He touched the scar on his ribcage. “Yes.”

John gently traced over it, guilt contorting his features. “This can’t happen again. I promise it won’t.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him briefly. “Have you any other questions?” he asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Hm? Oh, I guess.” He licked his lips. “Irene Adler.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh lord, what about her?”

“Did you love her?” he asked bluntly.

Sherlock shook his head, brushing John’s short, blond hair off his forehead. Sherlock had thought he was the only one with insecurities. He was sorely mistaken, and he hated himself for not seeing it all sooner. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved in any romantic capacity,” he said honestly. “The Woman was interesting, and I admit I was overwhelmed by the way she treated me, but I never loved her.”

John only looked slightly relieved. “Okay.” He looked down. “There’s something else. Remember when it turned out she was alive, and she brought me to meet her?” He looked up into his eyes. “I know you followed me.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I did.” He suddenly didn’t feel very comfortable kneeling above John right now. He got off him and went under the duvet and sheets.

John did the same, but did not let up. He turned on his side, facing Sherlock. “You heard our conversation.”

Sherlock knew exactly where this was going. “I did.”

“Then how, after that conversation, did you not know I wanted you?”

Sherlock stared at the duvet. “I wasn’t ready.” He kicked himself all of the time about how they could have been together sooner if it were not for his idiocy. But, he reminded himself, if they had gotten together, Billie would not have been born, or even conceived. It still hurt, though, to think of those wasted years, and all of that unnecessary pain. "I just wasn't ready," he reiterated, looking at John from under his lashes.

John’s features softened. “Oh. Oh, right, okay.” He sighed. “I’m being an arse right now.”

“No, you’re not. I understand how my behavior can be confusing. But, I wasn’t ready to confront how I felt. I panicked. I fled. It wasn’t until I saw you with Mary, until you were gone, that it all hit me.”

John kissed his forehead. “I understand. But, look, I shouldn’t have brought up the past. This,” he grabbed Sherlock’s hand under the blankets, “is our reality.”

Sherlock grinned, starting to feel more comfortable. “It is.” He looked at John seriously. “I can’t promise I’ll be a great…partner,” he said awkwardly. They weren’t boyfriends, were they? That term was too juvenile. “But, I will try.” His thumb stroked John’s hand. “I want to be good for you.”

John swallowed. “I know you’ll be fantastic. You’ve already done so much for me, Sherlock, and I haven’t returned a single thing.”

“ _John,_ ” he said emphatically, “you’ve got to stop talking about yourself in such a way. You saved me so many times, and in so many ways. You,” his chest felt like it was filled with sunshine, “give my life joy, and a purpose.”

John cupped his cheek and kissed him soundly. “You know you saved me. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” He pecked his cheekbone. “Look, we can both be moody pricks sometimes,” he said, “but we’ll be fine. I’ll try, too. We’ve been apart for too fucking long. I’m not giving this up for anything.”

“Neither will I,” Sherlock vowed, smiling.

John smiled back, slotting his leg between Sherlock’s, yawning. “Fuck, I’m tired. I’ve been tired for such a long time.”

“Is it not customary to sleep after intercourse?”

John guffawed. “You’re always so eloquent. Yeah, getting tired is normal. But, there’s one more thing I want to ask, and it’s not so serious this time.”

“Go ahead.”

“We talked about not leaving Billie alone; would it be okay if we put her crib in here until everything’s sorted out?”

“It would be fine.” Sherlock never imagined he would have to share his room with an infant, but then he never imaged he would actually be in bed with a naked John Watson. “We would just have had to go to her room when she’d start crying in the night, anyway.”

“Good point.” He sat up. “Let me go get Billie before I fall asleep.”

“In that state of dress?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“No, you git. Stay where you are, I’ll be right back.”

“You’re coming back to bed?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course I am.” John got out of bed. As he put on his pants, jeans, and vest, Sherlock settled under the blankets, yawning and closing his eyes, feeling calm and satisfied for the first time in...well, years. He must have fallen into a light doze, because when he opened his eyes, John, now clad only in his pants, was climbing back into bed.

“Hey, you,” he smiled fondly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Where’s Billie?” he asked drowsily.

“Mrs. Hudson’s a saint. She said she’d watch her for a couple more hours. Um,” he coughed, “I think she may have heard us.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder facing the ceiling. “She’s going to have to get used to it.”

John gave his high-pitched, giddy giggles. “Damn right about that.” He tangled their legs together, wrapping his arm around Sherlock, and buried his nose in his hair, exhaling deeply.

Sherlock closed his eyes, drifting back into slumber, enjoying the eye of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed some fluff, because the angst train is coming to town! :D  
> Edit: Forgot to mention, in case you haven't noticed, this is veering off into its own direction, not really following setlock pictures. I'm sorry, but I can't make heads or tails of some of the setlock stuff, so I'm just going to let this be its own thing now. I have a plan, though. Hopefully you'll like it.


	9. Moving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Billie move into Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the kudos and comments :)  
> I don't know if you've been keeping up with setlock lately, but damn, something big happened. I won't spoil it for you, but it's interesting that this big thing was not hidden from us AT ALL when this thing was hidden very well last setlock. That is all.

Sherlock felt warm and comfortable, the fabric of the sheets soft against his bare skin. He flexed his toes, a deep, peaceful rumble coming from his throat, burrowing into the blankets and his pillow. He was curled up on his side, the blankets pulled up to his head, no tension in his limbs. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. His eyelids were pleasantly heavy, and he wanted to go back to sleep. He breathed in deeply, and detected the lingering scent of sweat and sex. It wasn’t a scent he was used to having in his bed.

He realized what had woken him.

Billie was whimpering softly, and John’s voice was low and gentle, “Shhh, no more fussing. C’mon, Billie, Sherlock’s sleeping.”

Sherlock opened his eyes.

John was reclining on the bed on top of the duvet with Billie in his arms. John yawned as Billie whimpered more. “You’re okay, Billie. You’ve eaten, your nappy’s clean.”

Sherlock couldn’t speak. He never imagined waking up to John in his bed, let alone with a baby. He smiled softly. He entertained the idea of waking up like this every single morning, although he knew that not every morning would be this calm; there was bound to be an irritated morning with an infant in his room. Still, for the time being, he was sort of touched by the idea of John going to get Billie and letting him sleep. He wished John would get more rest, though, but he did look better than he had in quite some time.

John sat Billie on his lap, facing him. “You’re still upset? Okay, you asked for it.” He got a mischievous smile on his face and lifted her in the air, making a _woosh_ sound from his mouth, and Billie smiled a big, toothless smile, her eyes lighting up with a high-pitched laugh. John put her back down on his lap. “There’s that smile. Was that so hard?”

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. He reached out his hand and touched John’s thigh to get his attention.

John nearly jumped, face turning startled, then relieved. “You scared me, you bugger.”

“Hello,” Sherlock said simply, voice rough from sleep.

John grinned. “Hey. Did Billie wake you?”

“I was waking up anyway. What time is it?”

“Um,” John looked over at the clock on the bedside table. “Four o’clock.”

“When did you get her?”

“About five minutes ago. Mrs. Hudson said she could have watched her longer, but I didn’t want to impose.”

Sherlock sat up against the headboard, noticing how John’s eyes fell to his bare chest. He had a feeling that now their feelings were out in the open, John would stare at him with sexual interest much more often. The thought was thrilling and almost embarrassing.

But John, himself, looked delectable. His hair was tousled from sex and sleep, and the lines in his face had smoothed out for the time being, and Sherlock couldn’t resist staring at John’s chest, either.

John put one arm around Billie and lightly smacked Sherlock with his right hand. “Don’t look at me like that when I’ve got a baby on my lap, you git.”

“You started it,” Sherlock said, the corners of his lips tingling with the urge to smirk.

“Well, we can’t _both_ be horndogs.”

Sherlock snorted. “I am no such thing.”

“Hm, sure,” John rolled his eyes. “We can argue about that later. I wanted to ask, when can we move in?”

“Now,” Sherlock said immediately.

John laughed. “I don’t have any of my stuff, or any of her stuff here.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I need to tell Mary I’m moving in and taking her with me.”

The reminder of their situation cut through the light, sleepy mood. “She may put up resistance on you taking Billie.”

John stared into the middle of the bedroom, the lines returning to his face. “Custody will have to be settled with the divorce. She can’t do anything legally about me taking her now, can she, if we’re already filing for a divorce?”

“I don’t believe so,” Sherlock thought. “She’s your child, too. It isn’t as if a stranger is taking her.”

John sighed. “You’re right. I think I’m going to have this conversation with her over the phone. Maybe it’s not the bravest thing to do, but the less time I spend with her in person, the better.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock offered.

John handed Billie to Sherlock. “I’m going to call her in the sitting room, in case I start shouting. I don’t want her crying. Watch her for a few minutes?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock took Billie into his arms, secretly pleased to be holding her again.

John retrieved his phone from the pocket of his jeans (which were still thrown on the floor with the rest of his clothes), and left the bedroom.

Sherlock openly stared at the curve of John’s arse in his pants. He scolded himself. He shouldn’t have been thinking about sex with a baby in his arms. Billie stared up at him with indifference, a little _ah_ coming from her parted lips.

Sherlock heard John’s voice, but he was too far away to hear what he was saying. He wished he could hear their conversation. He had a feeling Mary wasn’t actually going to make a scene, at least, not to John. She had to have known John would leave her once she gave the okay for a divorce, and it would be highly likely Billie would go with him. Sherlock remembered how quickly she turned calm in the kitchen a couple days ago. If she had a plan, not putting up a fight at the moment may have been part of it. She was like a predator, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

He began to feel uneasy again, and Billie cooed. He came out of his head and looked down at her. She almost looked bored, and like she would start fussing and crying again out of boredom. He didn’t want that to happen. If they were going to live together, he had to know what made babies happy. Sherlock wasn’t an expert on childhood development, but he could do more with Billie than simply hold her and rock her to sleep at this point. Her little laugh with John melted his heart. Could he make her laugh? He didn’t think he ever made a child laugh before.

“You want to be entertained?” he asked her. “Can’t say I blame you. Life must be rather dull when you can’t move around much.” He thought of lifting her into the air, but decided against it. He was too afraid to do that. What if he dropped her? Unacceptable. He couldn’t. He could barely hold her without feeling like a nervous wreck. “What do babies like?” he asked aloud.

Billie said, “uh” in response.

Babies liked being tickled, right? What was that thing called….blowing a raspberry? Why was it called that? Sherlock looked at her, and still heard John talking in the other room. Well, it was worth a shot. If she disliked it, the John wouldn’t be around to see Sherlock’s blunder. Yes, it was worth a go. He could try.

He laid her down on the mattress on her back. He felt a bit awkward, but he had to know how to make her happy. If all went well, he would be spending several years living with her. He lifted up her tiny shirt a little bit, exposing her stomach, and he leaned down, his lips touching her soft skin. He blew a raspberry, and the effect was immediate: a loud, wet sound filled the air, and Billie started laughing. Sherlock sat up, smiling down at her. That wasn’t so hard, and she seemed very pleased.

“You liked that?” he asked.

She still had a big, gummy smile on her face, eyes bright.

“I suppose I could do it again,” he told her, and blew another raspberry on her stomach, resulting in another high-pitched, joyful fit of laughter.

He chuckled, letting the pure sound of her giggles flow into his mind. Her laugh was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds. “You’re very easily entertained.”

She looked up at him gleefully.

“All right, one more time.” He did it again, laughing with her this time. He sat up, taking her with him. He settled back under the blankets, keeping her on his chest. “There, are you in a better mood?”

Her smile made her cheeks chubby. He gently pinched a chubby, rosy cheek.

At a loud clearing of the throat, Sherlock’s head whipped around to the door.

John was standing there, phone in his hand, lips quivering from resisting a smile. “Having fun?”

Sherlock’s face heated up. “That was fast. What did Mary say?”

John pressed his lips together, still trying not to smile. “She sounded annoyed but, well, that was it. Not outraged. Just annoyed. I said I’m taking Billie, and she said, ‘Only for now. We’ll settle this in court.’ Then, she hung up.”

That fit Sherlock’s prediction. He didn’t like how compliant Mary was being, not one bit. “She has to be planning something,” he said. “She wouldn’t let you leave her like that if she weren’t planning something.”

“I agree, but for now, I’m going to take the opportunity and get the hell out of there.”

“Can you move in today?” he asked, and hoped he didn’t sound too eager. He wanted John here for his own selfish reasons, yes, but also for his and Billie’s safety.

“Yeah. I don’t have a lot of stuff, just some clothes and a few books and shit, so that shouldn’t take long to get over here. But, Billie? She needs a crib and diapers and toys and baby powder--”

“We can get her new stuff,” Sherlock said. “We’ll use my card.”

This time, John allowed himself to smile. “Sometimes, I really wonder how much money you have.”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said dismissively. “It’s not important.”

“Whatever you say. Thank you again, Sherlock.”

“There’s no need to thank me. Just get dressed and bring your stuff here as soon as possible. I’ll text Mycroft and tell him to have a moving truck ready.”

John nodded, getting the rest of his clothes from the floor. “Would you watch Billie while I go back to the house?”

“You don’t need to keep asking me to watch her,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, setting Billie down next to him. “Pass me my phone? It’s in my pocket.”

John got his phone from the discarded trousers and handed it to him. “Ah, true. It seems you two really get on.”

Sherlock blushed as he sent a text to Mycroft: _How soon can you get a moving truck outside of the Watson residence? SH_

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that,” John went on.

“John.”

“The Great Sherlock Holmes, blowing raspberries on a baby’s stomach.”

“ _John_ ,” he whined, face burning.

Mycroft messaged him back: **Consider it done. MH**

_Also deliver essential baby supplies to Baker Street. Use my card if you must. SH_

**Interesting. Consider that done, as well. MH**

“Going out of his way to make a little one laugh,” John said wistfully, pulling his jumper over his head.

_“John.”_

John chuckled. “Sorry, I’m done teasing you. But that was one of the most adorable things I ever saw.”

Sherlock lay down on his side, back facing John, and pulled the blankets up. “Go away.”

John’s voice dripped with amusement. “As much as I want to continue this conversation, I want to get this over with.”

Sherlock grumbled.

“I’ll be back soon, Sherlock,” John called. “You two have fun.” He left the room.

Sherlock looked at Billie, who was on her stomach, pushing herself up on his elbows. She was looking at Sherlock curiously.

He smiled. “Your dad can be insufferable at times, but in the best way possible.” He shifted under the sheets, and realized he was still naked. He should really fix that. He got up and pulled on a fresh pairs of pants and a T-shirt. He put his red dressing gown over it and joined Billie back on the bed. Her arms gave out and she slumped onto the mattress.

“Uh,” she said into the duvet.

Sherlock sat her against his side, his arm and hand holding her protectively. “There you are. You’ll be able to sit up completely soon enough.”

In the calm of his room, it was all hitting him: John was finally coming back to him, permanently, after all this time. John chose _him_ over Mary. They were going to have a life together. They loved each other. They had sex. They kissed. They would kiss more. They would have sex more. They would live in each other’s space again. They could have lazy nights hanging around the flat again again. Their lives would mold back into one. He looked down at Billie. Things would certainly be different than the last time John lived here, but different didn’t have to be bad.

There was a knock on the door leading from the stairs to the kitchen. The knock had been done with one knuckle.

Sherlock sneered. He knew that knock. He picked up Billie, holding her with one arm, and went into the kitchen, opening the door. “Mycroft. What an unpleasant surprise.”

Mycroft blinked at Billie. “You’re watching John’s child?”

“While he’s retrieving his belongings, yes.” He stepped back. “Won’t you come in?” he offered a cheesy smile. “I would offer you tea, but my hands are rather full.”

Mycroft stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the table. “So, let me guess: John is leaving Mary and moving back here, taking his daughter with him, and will officially divorce Mary in the near future?”

“Yes. Any other questions?”

Billie sucked her fist.

Mycroft looked unhappy. “Sherlock, do you honestly think Mary is going to let you win?”

“Let me win?” his brow furrowed. “This isn’t a game, it’s John’s life.”

“I know it is,” he said patiently, “but to Mary, it’s a game. You know it is. You requested my assistance around the time of this child’s birth; I assume you want me to continue surveillance?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, anxiety threatening to return. “Mary was here a couple days ago.”

Mycroft raised an elegant eyebrow. “She was?”

“She came because John and Billie were here and--”

“Wait,” Mycroft held up a hand, looking at Billie, “that’s her name?”

Oh. No one had told him yet. “Yes, don’t ask stupid questions,” he sharply.

Mycroft nodded slowly, instantly understanding, and Sherlock hated that about him. “I see. And your relationship with John entered the next stage after you discovered her name?”

“How do you know what’s going on with my relationship with John?” he asked, trying to keep the venom out of his voice for Billie’s sake.

He was unfazed. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, and all of the signs are there.”

Sherlock didn’t even want to know what gave him away. “As I was saying, Mary came over because John and Billie were here, but they were both asleep, so she and I had a discussion in this room.” He felt uncomfortable, but there wasn’t a point omitting parts of their argument, since Mycroft already knew he and John were together. “She accused me of having relations with John and stated she knew how I--feel about her husband.” He never wanted to have this conversation with his disgusting older brother.

Mycroft, to his credit, kept his mouth shut.

“She blamed me for her failed marriage, and I said it was all her fault. Then, she turned calm. Mycroft, I think she has a plan.”

“I believe so, too. We’re talking about the woman who tried to murder you for discovering her past; do you think there’s even a slight possibility she will allow you to have John and her child without some fort of punishment?”

Mycroft was never wrong. If he said she was going to do something, that made it official. Anxiety almost made him shake, but he suppressed it and held Billie closer. “John and Billie are going to live here. She will do something, and we must be prepared for it.”

“I agree,” he said seriously, his grip tightening around the handle of his umbrella. “I have cameras on her house and this building.”

“When--”

“I ordered to have them installed as soon as you asked for a moving truck.”

Sherlock deflated. As much as he hated being spied on, they needed the cameras for safety. “John recently spoke on the phone with her, and he said she wasn’t very angry when informed he was moving out and taking their baby with him. She only said they would settle custody in court.”

“She’s lulling you both into a false sense of security,” Mycroft said grimly. “Do not be fooled by her. She is waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“Like a predator,” Sherlock said.

“Like a shark,” Mycroft said.

They stood there in uncomfortable silence.

“She will strike,” Mycroft spoke grimly, “and we will be ready. Then, we can lock her away and you can live your domestic life with John and _Billie_ ,” he said the name with a twinge of distaste.

“Change your tone,” he said lowly, holding Billie to his chest. She gripped his T-shirt. She was staring at Mycroft uneasily.

Mycroft looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. “You realize I have nothing against this child? I simply think it was unwise for John to name her after you while his wife poses as a threat.”

“She doesn’t know my full name,” he explained.

“Ah. Well, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to tell her when the time comes.”

“Is there a real reason why you’re here?” he asked tiredly. “This conversation could have happened over the phone.”

“There is, actually,” Mycroft looked down at his watch.

Sherlock heard footsteps from downstairs.

“Here they are now,” Mycroft said, a hint of his smug smile on his face.

In came men carrying large boxes through the door to the sitting room. They set down the boxes in the middle of the room. Two men came in carrying a large box, and one of them asked Mycroft, “What about this one?”

“Where do you want her crib?” Mycroft asked Sherlock.

“In my room,” he said.

“In this room,” Mycroft pointed to the bedroom.

Mycroft and Sherlock got out of the way as the men took the large box in the room.

“You’re keeping her in your room for protection?” Mycroft asked.

“Obviously,” he said dully.

“Good idea.” Once all the boxes were set down on the floor, Mycroft addressed the men, “Thank you. That’s all.”

The strangers left the flat as quickly as they came in.

Billie looked confused.

Sherlock had to concede there were definitive perks of having an older brother as the British government.

“There you are,” Mycroft said. “I trust that you are capable of assembling the crib yourself. The rest of the boxes contain toys, diapers, bottles, etcetera,” he waved his hand, as if talking about baby things physically pained him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said reluctantly. “Now leave.”

Mycroft gave a long, suffering sigh. “Just be cautious, Sherlock. You know Mary will try to hurt you in some way, and soon. Be vigilant. Be prepared. We will stop her as long as you are smart.”

“I’m always smart,” he said defiantly.

“Yes, but so is Mary.” He actually looked worried. Sherlock never knew what to do with that. “Just call if anything comes up. I’ll let you know if she shows signs of suspicious activity.”

“I get the point. Good evening, Mycroft.”

Mycroft didn’t looked irritated. He actually looked... slightly sad. His facial features were set in stone, as ever, but it was in his eyes.

Sherlock was puzzled. What did he do wrong?

Mycroft left, shutting the door behind him.

Billie looked at Sherlock.

“I don’t understand, that’s how we always act toward each other,” he told her.

She blinked.

Whatever. Mycroft was just being stupid. “Let’s open some of the boxes, hm?”

 

* * *

 

By the end of the night, John’s wardrobe took residence in Sherlock’s drawers and closet, his books were on Sherlock’s shelf, the crib was assembled in the bedroom (after much shouting over the ridiculously complicated instructions), Billie’s clothes were in a trunk beside the crib, her toys were (for now) scattered on the floor, and all of the diapers, baby wipes, bottles, soaps, and powders found a place in the flat. John was right; he really didn’t have much. Even when he moved into Baker Street the first time, the majority of the clutter belonged to Sherlock. Whether John’s lack of personal items simply had to do with his personality, or an unpleasant childhood, Sherlock honestly wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to ask.

But even with the relatively small amount of items to move into the flat, it took all night for John and Billie to get settled in. At 12:36 in the morning, Billie was finally in her crib (after much crying from being over-tired), and Sherlock and John were climbing into bed.

“Fuck, I hate moving,” John said into his pillow.

“Hopefully you won’t have to go through the process again,” Sherlock yawned.

“Yeah,” John grinned. “God, we were so busy I didn’t even tell you about Mary.”

Sherlock’s pulse spiked. “What happened?”

“Hey,” John reached out and held his hand, “don’t start panicking. Nothing outwardly bad. She glared at me the whole time, but didn’t really say anything.” He frowned. “When do you think she’s going to do something?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I wish I knew. I spoke to Mycroft today, and he advised us to be careful, so when she strikes, we’ll be ready.”

“I guess that’s all we can do,” he said, dejected. “Everything’s locked, right?”

“For the sixth time, yes.”

“I just wanna make sure.”

Sherlock was tired and anxious, an unpleasant combination, and he wanted to be close to John. Would John let him? John was holding his hand, but it wasn’t enough. He didn’t feel brave enough to ask for more. They had sex earlier today, but this was different. Wasn’t it? Sherlock didn’t know. He was just nervous and wished Mary would just bloody _do something_ already.

“Sherlock,” John called his name, concerned. “Stop getting anxious.”

“I’m not,” he mumbled.

“I feel your hand shaking,” he squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock felt ashamed. John was worried, too, but he wasn’t a quivering mess. Sherlock turned over on his side, back facing John. “I’m going to try to sleep,” he said, staring at the wall. He felt John shift and get closer, until a strong arm was around his waist, John’s chest against his back, his lips brushing the back of his neck.

“Don’t close yourself off,” John murmured. “I know you’re worried, and you know I’m worried, too.”

“How are you keeping to together?” Sherlock asked, trying not to shake in John’s arms.

John laughed ruefully. “And you think I am?”

“You’re not?” he asked, turning his neck to try to see John’s face.

But John hid his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “I’m bloody terrified,” he confessed. “She’s going to go after you or Billie. I’m terrified of both options.”

Sherlock wanted to turn around, but had a feeling John was more comfortable hiding his face.

“I’ve been fending off a breakdown for awhile, now,” John said, his tone forcibly light.

Sherlock’s heart ached. “John.”

“I’m just saying you’re not alone. I can’t remember the last time I felt this anxious.”

Well, that was unacceptable. Sherlock had to find a way to make John relax, if only for a little bit. Then, it hit Sherlock that they hadn’t kissed today. Kissing was relaxing. He didn’t feel comfortable asking for physical comfort for his sake, but if it was for John? “John, we haven’t kissed today.”

John giggled. “You’re right. We were too busy with the fucking crib and all of that shit. I think we should fix that. Turn around?”

Sherlock flipped over. He couldn’t see John very well in the darkness of the room, but that made things more intimate.He pressed his lips against John’s, sighing softly between his parted lips. It felt good to kiss him again. John kissed him back, their lips sliding together comfortably. Sherlock calmed down a little as he wrapped his arm around John’s back, pulling him closer. John’s lips were soft and he tasted like toothpaste. Sherlock’s throat rumbled when John’s hand ran through his hair, and his eyelids started to feel heavy. That was stupid; he woke up a few hours ago. He wanted to keep kissing John.

Their lips mingled languidly, and Sherlock started to feel like himself again. They were both safe, here in his warm bed. They were okay. John’s lips on his were more comforting than anything else he had experienced. He knew kissing could be arousing, but he never knew it could simply feel _nice._ John’s T-shirt was soft on his palm, and Sherlock’s hand subconsciously rubbed his back. The movement of their lips became slower, and Sherlock held back a yawn. Yawning during kissing wasn’t good. Having his eyes closed made his eyelids felt heavier. Sherlock’s hand dropped to the mattress.

He felt John smile against his lips. “You’re tired,” he whispered. “I can feel it.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbled against his lips. “I want to kiss you.”

John giggled into mouth. “You’re going to fall asleep.”

Sherlock kissed him, whining tiredly.

John pulled back, smirking. “Sherlock, I love you. You’re tired.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Must you ruin my fun?”

John pressed a warm kiss to his forehead. “It was a long day.” He yawned. “I’ll make you a deal: let’s go to sleep, and I’ll kiss you as soon as I wake up.”

Sherlock was too tired to argue. He really wanted to watch John fall asleep (was that not normal?) but there was no way that would happen tonight. He gave up the fight. “Okay,” he slurred, nearly purring when John’s strong arms embraced him. He inhaled deeply, smelling John's soap. His fingers clenched in John's shirt like a cat's kneading paws. He let the sound of John's breathing soothe him. 

Sherlock could allow himself to fall asleep.

He would spend plenty of time panicking in the near future.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I'd give you some more fluff before the angst. I also wanted to build up the sense of dread with Mary. I'm pretty sure shit will get real by the end of the next chapter.  
> One more thing...if you've been following American news over the past week, you'll know some awful, scary things have happened (if you're reading this in the future you might not know what I'm talking about lol). I just wanted to say: I hope you're okay. It's okay to be upset over these things, but I hope the pain you might be feelings ends soon. Stay strong, bro.  
> There's the end of my cheesy spiel.


	10. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John got a little too wrapped up in their honeymoon phase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for angst and tension and fluff all in one chapter!  
> lol yeah I made Mary pretty damn bitchy in this chapter and it was pretty fun, honestly.

Sherlock awoke on his back, wrapped in the covers like a burrito, with John’s face pressed against the side of his neck. He opened his eyes and turned his head, prompting John to whine and bury his face deeper into the crook of his neck, rubbing the tip of his nose against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock looked at the clock and saw it was past eleven in the morning. John never slept that late. Was something wrong?

“John, why are you still sleeping?” he asked, lips brushing the top of John’s head.

John made a tired, amused noise in his throat. “I woke up at 5:30 with Billie. We were up for a few hours. She’s napping now, so I decided to lie down with you.”

“She woke you up?” he asked.

“When she started fussing in the crib, yeah,” he said through a yawn, warm breath puffing on Sherlock’s throat.

How did he not hear Billie or John get up? John had to pull himself out of bed and take care of her for hours because Sherlock was too busy sleeping? Great. It had not even been a day, and Sherlock was not being a helpful partner. “You should have woken me,” he mumbled. He hoped John wasn’t angry with him.

John rolled onto his back, rubbing his eye with a knuckle and yawning again. “Nah, it’s okay. You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you.”

Well, John didn’t seem angry. Still, Sherlock was disappointed with himself. He sat up, stretching his arms over his head.

John was looking at him fondly, cheeks rosy from sleep, stubble adorning his jaw. Sherlock loved when he forgot to shave.

His heart fluttered. “John?”

John sat up on an elbow and ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “Bed head,” he said simply.

Sherlock smiled, blushing lightly. He had missed feeling this comfortable around John. Then again, considering that he just spent the night sleeping with him, Sherlock didn’t think he ever felt this comfortable with him. They were comfortable around each other as partners, but not necessarily at ease. As soon as the drowsiness cleared from Sherlock’s mind, he remembered Mary. In the old days, they weren’t open with each other, but at least they didn’t have this constant fear hanging over their heads. He wouldn’t go back to having to hide his love, though. That was torturous.

“You okay?” John sat up, warm hand grasping his shoulder. “You’ve got a look.”

“I’m fine,” he said, moving his hand to cover John’s just because he could. “I think I’ve just gone too long without food.” He didn’t want John to worry more than he had to. He hadn’t really eaten dinner yesterday, and John knew that, so he easily bought the excuse.

“Go eat,” John patted his cheek gently. “It’s nearly lunch and you haven’t eaten since, what, yesterday afternoon?”

“Something like that.” He had the urge to kiss John’s palm. Was that too much? Was that considered a juvenile gesture? He didn’t realize he would face uncertainty even after getting together with John. This wasn’t John’s fault, though. It was his brain being stupid again. He would risk it. He turned his face into John’s hand and pressed a quick kiss to his palm.

To his relief, John grinned. “Come on, you. Food.”

Sherlock went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. When he looked in the mirror, he noticed how wild his hair was. No wonder John called him a bed head. At least he found it endearing. After leaving the bathroom, Sherlock ate the leftover toast and bacon John made for himself a few hours prior.

“Don’t think you can sleep in to avoid making breakfast,” John joked, coming into the kitchen.

Sherlock snorted. “You wound me. Is Billie okay?”

“Yeah, still sleeping. She should be getting hungry soon, so she’ll wake up.” John sat down at the table with him. On the surface, he seemed fine, but Sherlock saw the tension deeply settled in John’s face. He was thinking of Mary, then, but didn’t want to talk about it.

John’s words from last night echoed in his mind, _I’m bloody terrified._

Sherlock didn’t know if talking about her would harm or help him. He didn’t handle other people’s emotions well. But, he saw John retrieving into his own mind, frowning, staring blankly at a spot on the table. He wished John would let himself feel, instead of bottling it up.

That would be a difficult conversation. At the moment, he wanted to cheer John up. There had to be something that would make him smile. Sherlock’s mind raced for a solution. He thought of part of their conversation last night, right before Sherlock fell asleep. “John, you lied.”

John looked up, surprised. “What?”

Sherlock put on an air of petulance. “You said you would kiss me as soon as you woke up. You lied.”

It worked. John gave a short laugh. “Well, to be fair, I kissed your cheek when I first got up.”

John kissed him while he was asleep? That was--nice. That was good. He liked that. No, don’t get distracted. “That doesn’t count.”

John got up from his chair on the other side of the table, walked over to stand beside Sherlock, bent down, took his face in his hands, and kissed him firmly on the lips, breakfast forgotten. John’s thumbs caressed his cheeks gently, and his lips moved slowly against Sherlock’s, warm, soft, and welcoming. This was nice. They should do this every morning. Sherlock applied an equal amount of pressure against John’s lips (he was still getting the hang of this kissing thing). They enjoyed the simple feel of each other’s lips again, still marveling that they could do this. Sherlock opened his mouth ever so slightly, familiarizing the sensation of John’s mouth on his again, and his eyelashes fluttered at the softest brush of stubble on his skin. He liked that. He wanted to feel more of it.

“John?”

“Mm?” John kept kissing him.

“You haven’t shaved,” he said around John’s lips.

John touched his own jaw. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Sorry--”

“No,” Sherlock nearly growled, and they were both startled by his intensity. Sherlock’s long fingers grasped the collar of John’s vest, pulling him closer. “I like it.”

John licked his lips, “Yeah?” He kissed Sherlock hungrily, pausing briefly to nuzzle his cheek against Sherlock’s skin. His stubble prickled Sherlock’s face deliciously, sending tingles down his spine and to his cock. Why did this feel so good?

John’s arms came around his waist as he got more aggressive. “You’re gorgeous when you first wake up,” he whispered and kissed Sherlock harder.

Sherlock liked this side of John very much. He wrapped his arms around John’s neck, kissing back as best as he could, John’s praise washing over him in a gentle wave. He was starting to feel hot, and it was getting harder not to get completely pulled into bliss. He heard himself moaning as John’s tongue slipped into his mouth, hot and wet, and the skin around Sherlock’s mouth tingled and burned pleasantly. John’s mouth was insistent and bordering on rough, a low moan coming from his throat during their kiss. John broke them apart, and they panted. John began smearing kisses under his jaw, making sure Sherlock felt his stubble.

Sherlock’s toes curled and he gasped. His skin was even more sensitive there, apparently. But, he wanted to kiss John’s stubble. “John, let me kiss you,” he said breathlessly.

John lifted his head and Sherlock kissed him on his jaw, directly feeling the short hairs tingle against his lips. He groaned and kissed his jaw hard, finding himself getting aroused, and thoroughly enjoying kissing John. He wasn’t aware of the small growls that left his throat as his lips latched onto a spot on John’s jaw, sucking.

John gasped, “Sherlock, _fuck,_ that’s nice.” His hands held Sherlock’s head closer to his face, fingers grabbing onto the curls.

Sherlock wanted to lay John down and kiss every inch of stubble. It would be nice if they could do what they did yesterday, wouldn’t it? He wanted to feel the prickle of the stubble on his lips while grinding against John. More blood rushed to his lower half at the thought. That would be good, and going by John’s moans, they would both enjoy it. He wanted to kiss John and make him come, make him shout with pleasure. His prick throbbed. He tended to get aroused easily after he first woke up.

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock on the door that broke both of them apart.

John stumbled back and nearly lost his balance. He scowled. “Who the fuck--?” he started, voice hoarse, jaw red where Sherlock was nipping.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to John’s growing bulge. He was furious at whoever was at the door. They were enjoying themselves, damn it! He had a plan! “I’ll get it,” he shot up from the chair, intent on yelling at the annoyance behind the door.

“Sherlock,” John stopped him, grabbing his hand, “you sure you want to answer the door like that?”

Sherlock looked down at his partial erection. “You’re not much better,” he pointed out, causing John to look down at himself and clear his throat.

“I won’t open it all the way,” Sherlock said. “I’m going to tell whoever it is to go away.”

John let go of him, looking as sexually frustrated at Sherlock felt, red blotches on his face and pupils wide. “Hurry.”

Sherlock stalked into the sitting room. He opened the door only enough to reveal his head. “What?” he barked, but his lips parted at the intruder.

Mary.

She gave an ugly scowl. “Hello to you, too, Sherlock,” she said dryly.

The shivers of arousal he felt moments ago were instantly replaced with small ripples of fear he did not want to admit existed. “What are you doing here?” he whispered hotly, not wanting John to hear.

“I want to see my daughter,” she stated, loud enough for another person to hear.

“Sherlock?” John called from the kitchen.  
“Just a moment,” he called back, not taking his eyes off Mary. He did not want to let her in his domain. He should have anticipated her coming here, but Mycroft’s cameras were supposed to be watching the flat. How did she get here?! “Leave,” he whispered.

“No,” she stared back at him with defiance, eyes dark in the dim light of the top of the stairway. “She is my biological child and I have a right to see her.”

He heard John’s footsteps approach him, and then stop. “Mary?” he asked, tone mixed with irritation, surprise, and a bit of apprehension.

Sherlock wanted to throttle her.

“Yes,” she made her voice louder. “ _Sherlock_ won’t let me in.”

Sherlock opened the door wide enough for John to be able to see her. He still watched Mary carefully.

“What do you want?” John asked coldly.

“I want to see our daughter,” she said pointedly, glaring past Sherlock. “I don’t want to wait until custody is sorted to see her again. I carried her for nine months, suffered through ten hours of labor, I deserve to see her.”

Always manipulative.

“This is Sherlock’s place,” John said sternly, “if he doesn’t want you in here, then that’s that.”

Her eyelid twitched imperceptibly. “The divorce hasn’t gone through yet; you can’t keep me from seeing her. I can call the police.”

 _Tough luck, with Scotland Yard on our side,_ Sherlock thought. She was right, though. They couldn’t legally keep her from seeing Billie at this point in time. Sherlock did not trust her to take Billie and bring her back to Baker Street. But, Sherlock didn’t trust her to go away without seeing her. If they monitored her the entire time, then disaster could be avoided. “You may see her for a few minutes,” Sherlock relented. “But, we will watch you the entire time. Don’t try anything, Mary,” he warned.

She had the audacity to roll her eyes. “Of course not.”

He did not trust her. She could come in, shoot them, and leave with Billie. “We’ll have to search you.”

She actually laughed, “Don’t be dramatic, Sherlock.”

“‘Dramatic’?” John repeated incredulously. “You think he’s being fucking dramatic? You--”

“John,” Sherlock cut him off, “she’s your wife; you touch her.” He never initiated a touch with her, and he wanted to keep it that way. He finally looked at John.

John looked like a bomb on the brink of explosion. His left hand opened and closed, opened and closed, and he nodded stiffly. He stepped in front of Sherlock and Mary held out her arms horizontally, looking unimpressed as John searched her. After a few moments, John stepped back. “If she has anything on her, it’s not hidden in her clothes.”

She looked scandalized. “You think I would hide a weapon in some part of my body?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” John crossed his arms.

“John, I can’t believe--!”

“Shut up,” John cut her off viciously, teeth bared. “Shut up, and stay shut up. You’ve got a lot of nerve, with that fucking attitude of yours,” he spat. “This isn’t your home, Mary.”

“You’re disgusting,” her nose scrunched up unattractively, the crow’s feet deep around her eyes.

“Do you want to see Billie or not?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“Yes,” she asserted.

“I’ll get her,” John said. “Watch her.” He walked out of the sitting room.

Mary fully came into the flat and shut the door behind her. Her platinum blonde hair was slicked back, reminiscent of the night at Leinster Gardens. She eyed Sherlock up and down.

Sherlock felt like he was under a microscope. While his erection was long gone, the fact that he was making out with John moments until her arrival made him uncomfortable. He sensed that she knew. He shouldn’t have been uncomfortable in his own home, but her gaze made him want to crawl out of his skin.

Mary looked like she wanted to vomit. “So, you happy now? You have him all to yourself.”

His blood boiled. “Don’t.”

“You have stubble burn all of your face,” her eyes narrowed.

Sherlock swallowed, humiliation creeping up on him.

Her lips curled into a condescending smirk, “Do you enjoy finally getting what you wanted?”

It took immense effort for Sherlock to keep himself completely still. “Do you enjoy getting a rise out of me?” he retorted, voice dripping with acid. “Do you enjoy using petty tactics in an attempt to upset me?”

“Do you enjoy his cock up your arse?”

Sherlock was so knocked off guard that he could not prevent his jaw from dropping, feeling like he had been punched in the gut.

She stared at him with a sweet smile and eyes brimming with loathing.

“We didn’t,” he choked out, and his voice died in his throat. It was none of her business! No one ever talked that way to him. Why the hell did she even want to know that?

Her lips curled up even more, eyes unblinking. “Oh, not yet? Looking forward to it, are you?”

It felt like tiny pins were stabbing his stomach. He couldn’t believe his ears. He had been monstrously uncomfortable when the Woman brought up sex around him, but this was much worse. Much, much worse. He wanted to know why she was doing this, but his throat refused to work. Since the beginning, she loved to mock him, but this was off the charts.

She smirked enough to show teeth. “Not the Virgin anymore, are you?”

His mind was filled with so many retorts that it short-circuited, but one thing stood out in his mind: only two people ever called him that, the Woman, and apparently, she learned it from Moriarty. “You--!”

“Or have you not done anything yet?” she asked with a fake pout. “Too scared? You’re not used to interacting with people like that. You won’t be able to keep him satisfied for long.”

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asked feebly, too stunned to put any strength in his voice. He was numb.

She shrugged callously. “I have nothing to lose, have I?”

John came into the room with a groggy Billie.

Mary’s expression instantly snapped into a doting smile. “Aw, there she is!”

This petty, insufferable woman! Sherlock felt his hands shaking by his sides. He couldn’t let John see. John was under enough stress right now. He had to push it all down, contain it all. He needed to keep his cool until she left. He hated her. He hated her. He fucking hated her.

Mary held Billie, speaking idiotic, nonsensical baby talk to her, acting as if she were the world’s most loving mother.

Billie seemed to recognize her mother’s voice, a small smile gracing her face.

Mary looked up at Sherlock from under her lashes, like she was saying, _See?_

He felt sick.

“Sherlock?” John looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong?”

Mary was still staring at him.

The idea of admitting what Mary said to him was embarrassing. He didn’t know what to do. He just stood there. He had been alone with her for less than a minute, and she used every second to render him speechless.

John’s head slowly turned to Mary, a dangerous spark in his eyes. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she said indignantly. Her attention went to Billie. “Bille, love, did you miss me?”

“No,” John shook his head, “we’re not done. What did you do?”

“Sherlock could tell you. Right, Sherlock?”

It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him. He knew John would be angry with her once he knew the truth, but Sherlock _just couldn’t say it._ He was frozen. He was mortified.

“Sherlock,” John shook his shoulder, “say something, would you?”

He stared ahead at Mary. “I want her to leave,” he said woodenly.

From his peripheral vision, he saw John nod curtly. “Get out,” he said to her.

She held Billie closer. “I’ve barely been with her for a single minute.”

“I don’t care,” John raised his voice, prompting Billie to start crying.

Mary grimaced. “Look at what you did!” She rocked Billie, “There, there, my little love.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” he pointed at the door. “Call the cops if you want to. Put on an act, cry to them how I won’t let you see your child. Think I bloody care? You think Lestrade wouldn’t help us out? We shouldn’t have let you step foot in here.” His voice was hard as stone.

John’s care put balm on the wound Mary inflicted. Sherlock watched him silently, wanting John to stick up for him.

“Listen to me,” he jabbed a finger into her chest, narrowly missing Billie.

Billie was still crying.

Mary’s eyes were made of ice.

“You do _not_ come in here and upset Sherlock,” he snarled over Billie’s loud cries. “I don’t know why you thought you’d get away with this, but you’re out of your bloody mind!” he shouted.

Billie wailed, and Sherlock’s heart ached for her. But, John had a point: why did she think she would be able to get away with this? This wasn’t making sense.

“Fine,” she handed Billie to John. “It’s clear you want nothing to do with me as long as you have your _boyfriend.”_

“Damn fucking right,” John growled, subconsciously bouncing Billie.

Sherlock felt a bit better upon hearing John confirming they were boyfriends. That term wasn’t sufficient for what they were to each other, and they were frankly much too old for the term to be appropriate, but it was still sort of nice.

He found his voice. “You heard him,” Sherlock said, drawing both of their attention. “Leave.”

Mary glowered at him. “Once I get custody rights, you won’t stop me from seeing her.”

“ _If_ you get custody rights,” Sherlock said lowly.

Her nostrils flared. “You better believe I will.”

“I have a big brother in the government,” he said, enjoying having the upper hand.

John had the ghost of a smirk on his face as he calmed Billie.

Just like before, the anger left Mary, and a cool mask of indifference overpowered her features. “I know when I’m not wanted. See you later, John. Sherlock.”

She stormed out of the flat, slamming the door loudly behind her, upsetting Billie again.

John sighed and shushed her. “It’s okay, love, she’s gone.”

Sherlock’s released a long breath. That was terrible. He stalked into his room to grab his phone. Stupid, incompetent Mycroft! He went to turn on his phone, only to realize it was dead. He plugged it into the charger. When it powered up, he deflated. Three missed calls from Mycroft, and seven texts, all alerting him of Mary.

He went to John’s phone, and that was dead, too. When he plugged it in, more missed calls and texts appeared.

Mycroft _did_ try to alert them. They had been too tired to plug in their phones last night and just collapsed into bed. They were careless. This was their fault. Just then, Mycroft called his phone.

Sherlock answered it. “Everything’s okay,” he said.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft sounded angry. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? Or John? What were you two doing?”

 _Kissing._ “Mary’s gone.”

“Are you three all right?” he asked insistently.

“Yes,” he assured him. “She was her usual self and stormed out after John told her to leave. You should have sent someone to stop her!”

“You should have been more alert!” Mycroft rarely raised his voice. “You _know_ she was going to turn up eventually, Sherlock. Why were you so careless?”

Because he was kissing John. He felt ashamed. “She’s gone now.”

Mycroft sighed on the other end of the line, and Sherlock pictured him pinching the bridge of his long nose. “You must be more careful.”

“I will.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry.” He could apologize this time. He was genuinely wrong.

“Please keep your phone on at all times,” Mycroft told him, exasperated. “Make sure at least one of your phones is always on, at least.”

“We will,” he promised.

“What did Mary want?”

“To cause trouble,” he said. “The usual. I have to go now. Billie’s crying.”

“Fine. Be smart next time, Sherlock.”

Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock put the phone in the pocket of his pajama pants and went into the sitting room.

John was on the sofa with Billie. She wasn’t crying anymore, but her lip was wobbling.

“John, we were stupid.”

John still looked angry from Mary. “Sherlock, how did she get here?”

“Mycroft tried contacting us multiple times, but our phones were dead. Remember, we were exhausted and said we’d charge our phones in the morning?”

John sank into the sofa, holding Billie to his chest. “Oh,” he said softly. “Yeah.”

Sherlock came over and sat next to them. They were so wrapped up in each other they completely let their safety take a backseat. “We let our guard down for a few hours--”

“And she took advantage,” John finished his sentence unhappily. “Fuck. Sherlock…” He was struggling to keep his voice down. He laughed ruefully. “It’s not bloody fair, is it? We finally sort our shit out, get together, and we can’t relax. We should have known, though.”

Sherlock brought his knees up, his legs touching John’s side. “We should have,” he agreed gravely. “We can’t rest until she’s dealt with.”

John rested his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m so tired of thinking about her.” His head rolled on the cushion and he gazed at Sherlock, eyes full of sorrow. “I just want to be with you and not give a toss about anyone else. Well,” his hand rubbed Billie’s back, “besides the little one.”

It felt like someone squeezed his heart. “I know,” he said softly, hand reaching out and gently cupping John’s cheek.

To his satisfaction, John leaned into his touch.

Billie whimpered.

“Does she need to eat?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, actually. I was going to feed her after Mary left.”

“I’ll do it,” he got up. He got one of her bottles from the kitchen and came back to the sofa. He took Billie from John and fed her, her head resting in the crook of his arm. She drank enthusiastically.

“I don’t think she actually wanted to see Billie,” said John. “I think she just wanted to upset us.”

“I think you’re right,” he said, looking down at Billie. There was something about her that always calmed him down.

“Sherlock,” John said gently, “what did she say to you?”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. “It’s...It’s not a big deal. I don’t know why I’m this way.”

“It’s clearly a big deal,” John countered and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock looked at him, feeling small and vulnerable.

John kissed him softly on the lips. “Tell me,” he whispered. “I want to know.” He stroked his cheekbone.

Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes going back down to Billie. “She...She asked if I were happy now that I have you, and if I liked…” He was encouraged by John’s warm hand cupping the back of his neck. “She asked if I liked your cock up my arse,” he said bluntly.

John’s fingers tightened around the back of his neck.

“John,” he protested.

“Sorry,” John removed his hand. “What else?”

Sherlock kept his eyes down, watching the formula leave the bottle. “She implied I’m not capable of maintaining a sexual relationship with you.” His head shot up. “John, she called me the Virgin. Only the Woman and Moriarty, apparently, have called me that.”

John shot off the sofa, pacing back and forth quickly, fists trembling, acting like a caged panther. “She--!” he bit his lip, looking at Billie. “That fucking vile woman,” his voice shook with the effort to hold back his fury. His face was red and a vein bulged out his neck. “I can’t fucking believe she said that to you. The fucking nerve of that woman. How could she come in here--?” He stopped pacing. He looked murderous. “She’s lucky you didn’t tell me while she was here.”

Sherlock was pleased with John’s reaction. He saw that the bottle was empty, so he set it down on the coffee table. He sat up, put Billie on his shoulder, and started burping her. She might spit up on his shirt, but there were more pressing matters at hand. “Focus, John. I had my suspicions before, but now I believe she worked for Moriarty.”

John looked like he wanted to punch the wall. “I wouldn’t put that past her. Might explain how an ex-assassin just so happened to find me, of all people.” He was breathing hard. “I wish we had proof of that.”

“I do, too. If Moriarty himself couldn’t be caught, I doubt one of his ex-henchwomen could be. Once again, we only have our suspicions,” he said sourly. “She would never admit it.”

John shook his head, releasing a long, slow breath. “I still can’t believe she talked to you like that. What we do is none of her fucking business.”

Sherlock heard Billie burp, so he sat her down in his lap. John needed to calm down. If he let his anger fester, he would explode eventually. Sherlock knew that from living with him for years.

He saw some of Billie’s new toys on the floor, between their chairs, so he brought her over to that spot and gently set her down on the carpet.

“Why don’t you play for awhile?” he suggested.

She lay on her stomach, holding herself up on her elbows.

He rolled a small, colorful ball to her, and she stared at it in wonder.

Sherlock walked over to John and, without a word, hugged him.

John hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said in his ear.

“Not your fault,” he said automatically.

John pecked the shell of his ear. “You don’t deserve that treatment.” He sighed into his neck. “She’s not ever going to stop, is she?”

“No,” Sherlock buried his nose in John’s shoulder. “Did you see the look she had in her eyes before she left?”

“Oh, yeah, how she got really calm suddenly? That’s what you were talking about before?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“She’s definitely not done with us.” John moved to look at Billie, who was gnawing on the rubber ball. He sagged in Sherlock’s arms. “What the hell will be the breaking point? I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. I feel like I’ve been on edge for months.”

“I know,” Sherlock kissed John’s cheek, overcome with the need to make John feel better. His mortification from earlier was gone, now, and was rapidly being replaced with anger. She waltzed in, upset everyone, and left. He couldn’t allow her to do that again. He couldn’t allow himself to be so careless again. There would be time to spend all day doing nothing but loving John. He couldn’t do that until she was gone from their lives. He made a vow to protect John and Billie, and he failed. Not anymore. “There will be a day when she will be out of our lives forever. I promise you, John.”

“Do you think she was a sniper at the pool?”

Sherlock didn’t need clarification. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

John sighed shakily. “To think I fell for her, asked her to fucking marry me. And people wonder why I have trust issues,” he mumbled, sounding lifeless.

Without his knowledge, Sherlock’s breath left his lips in a gentle _shhh_ and he held John around the waist.

John kissed below his earlobe. “Can we--can we just sit for awhile? Just lie down? I need to not do anything for a few hours.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock said. “Let me lock the doors first.”

“I did as soon as Mary left,” he said.

“Ah, good.” He took John by the hand and led him to John’s chair, sitting down, and pulling John on top of him. He wrapped his arms around John’s middle and pressed his chest against John’s back. “Let’s sit here and watch her,” he said.

John leaned back into his arms, exhaling deeply. “Good idea.” He rested the back of his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock’s cheeks felt warm from being so close to John. His crotch was pressed against the small of John’s back, but there was nothing sexual about this. He was just holding him. Sherlock nuzzled a kiss into the top of his head, lifting one of his hands to smooth back John’s hair.

John hummed. “You’re so good to me,” he mumbled.

“I’m simply helping you relax,” he said. He liked this very much. Holding John would become his new favorite pastime.

John pressed a small kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Love you.”

His heart thumped happily. “I love you, too.” The words felt like honey on his tongue. He took in his surroundings, with John in his arms, and Billie playing on the floor. This was his family. He loved them. He would do anything to protect them.

Mary would never step foot in their home again. He would get rid of her. He had to.

John said, “Hold on.” He leaned down, scooped Billie into his arms, and settled back into Sherlock’s chest. “That’s better.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement and hugged John around the middle, resting his chin on John’s broad shoulder.

Billie was still holding onto the ball. “Uh,” she told John.

“You like your toys, Billie?” John asked her.

“She’s got enough to entertain every child in London,” Sherlock said.

John chuckled, “Shush, she deserves it.”

“She does.”

She looked at them and smiled, the ball in her hand covered in her saliva.

Well, as long as she was happy.

“I feel like all she’s done is eat and sleep the past couple days,” John said.

“She does other things?”

John smiled. “Yeah. Well, she’s starting to. She likes to play now. I should probably let her back down on the floor to play with the other toys and let her explore, but, I dunno, I want to hold her for a little.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Sherlock kissed his shoulder.

“Do me a favor? There’s a rattle by your foot.”

Sherlock reached a long arm down, picked up the rattle shaped like a flower (children had such silly toys) and tried handing it to John.

“My hands are full,” he said. “You do it.”

John could have easily held Billie with one arm. Sherlock wasn’t a fool. He rolled his eyes. “If you insist,” he sighed theatrically.

He shook the rattle, and Billie’s eyes widened in awe. She grinned and kicked her feet, nearly hitting John in the chest.

Sherlock laughed and John put on a glare. “Git.”

“She likes it!” Sherlock said happily, shaking it more.

Billie let the ball drop to the floor and she reached for the rattle.

He reached over John and put it in her hand.

Her hand was only big enough to hold the rattle itself, not the handle, and she couldn’t shake it well enough herself for it to produce a noise.

Sherlock placed his hand over hers and shook it for her, beaming at her subsequent gummy grin.

“You two are cute,” John commented.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said absently, shaking it more.

John cleared his throat. “I want to ask you something.”

Sherlock let Billie have the rattle and he looked at John. “Yes?”

John turned his head enough to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock could feel John’s heart beating due to their embrace.

“Well, I mean,” he started, the tips of his ears coloring, “we have to talk to her so she begins to understand speech--”

“I’m aware.”

John jabbed Sherlock with his elbow as best as he could with Billie in his arms. “ _Anyway,_ she’s going to have to learn our names. Well, um, not exactly our names, but what she’ll call us. Is she really going to call you ‘Sherlock’ all her life?”

Sherlock blinked. “I...hadn’t thought of that.”

Billie made tiny noises as she decided to put the plastic rattle in her mouth.

John grinned gently. “Well, she’s your baby, too. It would be weird if she called you by your first name.”

 _She’s your baby, too._ Sherlock’s heart stuttered.

“Would you want to be called ‘father’?”

Sherlock sneered, “What is this, 1895?”

John laughed heartily, causing Billie to smile. “Well, I didn’t know!”

“I’m not _that_ posh, John,” he pouted.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my love,” he kissed his protruding lower lip. “Okay, the only other options I can think of are ‘dad’ or ‘papa.’”

This conversation was melting Sherlock’s heart quicker than he thought possible. “I...What do you want to be called?”

John poked Billie’s nose, and she grinned around the rattle. “I don’t really have a preference.”

Sherlock thought. “I think ‘papa’ better suits you.”

“You think so? Well, that’s fine by me.” John put his hands under Billie’s armpits and hoisted her up, so she was eye-level with them. “Say ‘hello’ to your dad, Billie,” he said joyfully.

Sherlock’s lip quivered and he clenched his jaw, looking into her deep, blue eyes, a copy of John’s eyes. He really was going to be a father to her, wasn’t he? He would try to be a dad, at least. She deserved for him to try. John did, too.

“Hi,” Sherlock’s voice came out in a small rumble.

John shifted carefully so he was on his side and Billie was between him and Sherlock.

Sherlock gave John a crooked smile. “John, you’re wonderful.”

John beamed at him. “You’re sweet.” His smile dimmed a little. “It could always be like this, if it weren’t for Mary.”

Sherlock ran his hand over Billie’s silky, golden hair.

She said, “Mmmm.”

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “We must be careful. We cannot let domestic bliss take over until she’s gone.”

“I know. She’s going to bother us again.”

“And soon.”

“But, how?”

“She won’t try coming here again,” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls.

“But, as long as we don’t act like horny morons again, we’ll be prepared.”

Sherlock giggled. “We’ll have to keep our phones on during sex.”

“We can deal with that.”

With the fog of humiliation long gone, and Mary at a safe distance, he recalled, “I asked why she said those things to me, and she said it was because she has nothing to lose.”

John’s mouth twisted. “She’s getting desperate.”

“Exactly.” The fear crawled into his chest again. “She wants to hurt me. She won’t stop until she burns the heart out of me.” In a way, she was worse than Moriarty. At least she wasn’t strapping bombs onto people.

“Maybe literally,” John said thickly.

Sherlock gazed at Billie and John. Mary would not take him away from them. He wouldn’t let her. He would fight to protect them until his dying breath.

She would strike soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 99% sure Mary's going to do her shit next chapter.


	11. The Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They prepare for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you SO MUCH for getting this story to 400 kudos!!! You guys keep me going. Thanks sosososososososososo much

The next day, a package came for Sherlock with a note attached: _It would be wise to make use of these. I provided one for Doctor Watson just in case. --MH_

Inside of the box were two bulletproof vests. He took them out of the box and placed them on the coffee table. John, who was seated on the floor with Billie, playing with her toes (which seemed to confuse and amuse her), frowned.

“From your brother?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed.

He let go of Billie’s feet. He picked her up and placed her in one of her toys, on a little mat with zoo animals printed on it, with an arch hanging above the mat, and large, plastic toys hanging from it. Billie, on her back, stared up at the toys and reached out to touch one.

Sherlock accepted that his flat would be cluttered with baby toys for the foreseeable future.

John looked at the vests glumly. “He gave us two. Does he think she’s going to go after me?”

The thought nearly made Sherlock sick. He couldn’t entertain it. “I don’t see why she would. She hates me, not you.”

John looked up at him, his eyes troubled. “You think she’d kill you simply for revenge? It’s not like if you’re gone, I’d go back to her.”

“I think she would kill me simply for revenge,” Sherlock said stiffly. “We were alone in this room for about a minute, and she used every second to harass me.” It was weird to say, but that was what she did. She verbally harassed him.

“Yeah,” John sighed, looking back at the vests. “We didn’t even consider these with Moriarty,” he said glumly.

“Moriarty would have never tried to kill us without putting on a show first,” Sherlock said. “Mary, however, isn’t one for theatrics.”

“She’s one for killing without question,” John said darkly.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it.”

John cracked a smirk. “Hm. Are you going to wear one every time you leave the house?”

“That’s a little excessive,” he snorted.

“No,” John cut him off. “Do it. You just said she’s going to go after you. Wear a bloody vest, Sherlock.”

“All right,” Sherlock said, but more for John’s sake. “I can’t imagine her killing me in public.” He swallowed. “Mary would want me to know she was going to kill me. She wouldn’t shoot a sniper rifle from a building across the street or anything of that sort.”

“Sherlock,” John said, pained, “can we not talk about you dying?”

Sherlock’s features softened. “I’m sorry, John.”

John looked down at Billie. “Should we wear them in here?”

Sherlock wanted to say no, but would that really be a bad idea? They decided to keep their doors locked at all times, only letting Mrs. Hudson in, but could she find a way to get in? Sherlock didn’t think lockpicking was one of her skills, but then again, he barely knew her. “I don’t know.” He didn’t want to have to wear a bulletproof vest in his own damn home. He couldn’t wait until he could just live in peace. Were they both being paranoid? No, no Mary showed up just yesterday. But they would have been prepared if they kept track of their stupid phones. Plus, Sherlock had a feeling Mary wouldn’t come here again.

“I think, if Mycroft ever calls us because Mary is on her way here, we should put them on. However, I don’t think it’ll be necessary to wear these around the flat. If Mary is to hurt us, it won’t be here.”

“How can you be so sure?” John asked.

“Because we’re expecting her to come here,” Sherlock explained, “and she’ll want to catch us off guard.”

John looked resigned. “Yeah, you’re probably right. So, wear these outside?”

“Yes. While I believe I’m her target, it wouldn’t hurt for you to wear one.”

“Yeah, okay. Doors are locked, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s forget about that woman for a little while and play with our daughter, okay?”

Sherlock smiled. “Okay.”

* * *

The week somehow went on. They constantly kept their phones charged and in their pockets, the ringers on, but Mycroft didn’t have any news. When Mary left her house, it was to go to shops. She didn’t go anywhere near Baker Street.

That put Sherlock on edge more than if she had tried to get to the flat again. John insisted that Sherlock shouldn’t leave the flat unless absolutely necessary, but he, himself, insisted that he needed to go to work.

“Babies are expensive, Sherlock,” he said patiently. “We need money.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock said, but knew he was fighting a losing battle. “I want you here.”

“I need to go into work today, Sherlock.” He looked at Sherlock, and then sighed. “Would it make you feel better if I wore the vest to work?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll wear the vest.”

"Take your gun, too."

"Fine."

That day, John came home safe and sound.

John walked over to Sherlock and kissed him soundly, cradling his face in his hands. “I’m okay,” he had murmured. “I’m home.”

Sherlock hadn’t even realized he was trembling.

John had texted Mary about settling the divorce, and she responded with a curt text message, saying she needed space before she could see him again, or talk with him on the phone.

“Acting like she’s the victim,” John snarled, throwing his phone on the bed. “You know what? Whatever. That means I won’t have to see her for a bit.”

They informed Mrs. Hudson of the entire situation, and she admitted to John that she hadn’t liked Mary for a long time, but this news, her trying to kill Sherlock and threatening to kidnap Billie, made Mrs. Hudson hate her.

“What kind of woman would endanger her own child?!” Mrs. Hudson threw her hands in the air. “Why, I feel terrible for ever offering her a cup of tea!”

Sherlock always knew she was an intelligent woman.

Friday night, Sherlock volunteered to put Billie to bed. He was still getting used to being able to interact with her, not only because they hadn’t spent much time together in the grand scheme of things, but because he never spent this much time with a baby. He was her father, though, and he wanted her presence in his life to become as normal as John’s.

After they bathed her (which was something Sherlock let John do; he was afraid he would scrub her too hard or be too soft and not clean her well) and she drank her last bottle, Sherlock brought her into their room. They were alone now, with John watching the news in the sitting room. Sherlock found himself most comfortable with her when they were alone. He loved having John there, but if he did something stupid, it was better if John didn’t see.

Sherlock held her against his chest, his arm around her, the sleeve of his dressing gown serving as a blanket. Her chubby cheek rested on his collarbone, and she yawned, making neutral sounds in her throat. Sherlock’s heart sped up. She was wearing a pink onesie with an elephant pattern and her golden hair was sticking up from her bath. She was precious.

Sherlock slowly rocked side to side, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of her head. “Time to sleep,” he told her, his voice rumbling deeply in his chest. He wanted to play a song for her on his violin, but that would require letting go of her, and that was unacceptable. Maybe when she was a little older, and less fragile. He looked out the window, at the cars passing down the street. He imagined Mary on the sidewalk, looking up at the flat. “She won’t get you,” he spoke softly. “I promise.” He stared at the sky. In moments of quiet like this, he always got emotional. Before he got together with John, these were the times when he would feel the most lonely and heartbroken. Now, he felt fearful and protective at the same time. “I never thought I would be a parent,” he confessed, “but I never anticipated the impact your father would have on my life.”

She made a little sound.

“Yes,” he said, “your papa. You’re fortunate to have that man as your father. He will do everything in his power to make you happy, I know he will, as will I.” He looked down at Billie and saw her eyes closed. He stopped rocking and carefully put her in the crib on her back.

She frowned and whimpered at the loss of contact.

Sherlock ran a large finger over her cheek, holding back his rising panic. “Shhh, Billie, Daddy’s just putting you to bed,” he whispered.

A few seconds later, she calmed.

Sherlock removed his hand from inside of the crib and stood up straight, brow furrowing when he felt another presence in the room. He spun around and saw John in the doorway, face soft with a big smile.

Sherlock flushed. “John.”

John placed a finger to his lips and beckoned Sherlock to come to him.

Sherlock did, and followed him out of the bedroom.

John quietly shut the door. He gazed at Sherlock, eyes misty, expression so full of affection it nearly took Sherlock’s breath away. “Sherlock, did you hear yourself just now?”

“That--depends. How long were you standing there?”

“A couple minutes.” He placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Just now, putting her in her crib?”

“I don’t remember saying anything in particular,” he said, enjoying the warmth of John’s hand through his T-shirt.

John gave him a beautiful lopsided smile. “You called yourself ‘Daddy.’”

Sherlock’s face burned. He did? “I…”

John wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him, lips warm and soft. “God, I love you.” He let out a dreamy sigh, breath hot on Sherlock’s face, “You’re such a good man.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders, needing to hold onto something. “John.”

John kissed the tip of his nose. “Are you tired?”

Sherlock was thrown off by the non sequitur. “Not particularly. Why?”

“Good,” his voice dropped. “I’ve been dying to touch you all day.”

A pleasant shiver cascaded down his spine. “Is that so?” he asked breathlessly.

“Yeah,” John smirked against his lips, stealing a quick kiss. “Are you up for it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said urgently, cringing at his eagerness.

John licked his lips. “Great.” He stepped back. “Why don’t you go undress and lie on the sofa while I get the lube?”

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. Over the past few days, their anxiety and Billie had prevented them from having sex as often as they wanted. They were both frustrated, because they finally knew what they were to each other, but the mood was either zapped by any mention of Mary, or by Billie’s cries. Sherlock and John loved Billie dearly, but they wanted to explore each other’s bodies, and be close in a way that was new, and fresh, and thrilling. The sexual encounters they did have had been limited to reciprocal hand jobs and frottage, which felt amazing, because it was John and simply being allowed to touch him was enough to make Sherlock harder than was probably normal, but Sherlock wanted to do _everything._ He didn’t want to do it all at once, though, and he was hesitant to suggest anything new, letting John take the lead. He could tell by the glint in John’s eye that he was planning for something new tonight.

“Okay,” he said weakly. Sherlock went over to the sofa and stripped hurriedly, his cock twitching from sheer anticipation. He gingerly lay on the cool cushions, feeling self-conscious. John called him beautiful, but Sherlock hadn’t been naked in front of anyone until earlier in the week, and he was still adjusting. He looked down at his penis. Should he touch himself until John got back? He folded his arms over his stomach. He didn’t really know what to do.

John came in, lube in hand, and eyed him. “You don’t have to look so apprehensive. I don’t have anything complicated in mind.”

“I’m not apprehensive,” he said, blushing under John’s gaze.

John patted his knee. “Spread your legs for me?”

Sherlock gulped and obeyed, exposing himself fully.

John’s eyes darkened. He sat on his knees between Sherlock’s legs, putting the bottle of lube against the back of the couch. John leaned up and kissed Sherlock sensually, his wet tongue slowly swiping across Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock opened his mouth and let John’s tongue in. The wet slide should have been off-putting, but Sherlock loved it, and he couldn’t think of any logical explanation why. John pulled his lower lip between his own lips, sucking it, causing Sherlock to squirm.

John’s hand smoothed down Sherlock’s chest, stopping to roll a hard nipple in a circle with his thumb. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth, the twin sensation of his lip being bitten and nipple being played with making him quiver. The pad of John’s thumb rubbed his hard bud, then pinched it gently, so gently, just enough to make Sherlock harder. John’s hand left his chest and trailed down, past the thick patch of hair, and his fingers wrapped around his dick.

All the blood that was not spread across Sherlock’s face and chest in a blush traveled to his groin. Sherlock wanted John to feel good, too, so his unsteady hand blindly reached and found John’s prick, beginning to get hard in his boxers, and Sherlock palmed it. John’s breath hitched and he stopped kissing him, staring down at Sherlock with stars in his eyes, his hand still stroking him from root to tip.

“I’m going to do something,” he said huskily. “You can tell me to stop anytime.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said. He trusted John.

John moved back enough so Sherlock could no longer reach his growing bulge. John leaned down and, only pausing to lock eyes with Sherlock, engulfed the head of his cock with his soft, wet lips, and all of the air left Sherlock’s lungs in a long gasp. _Oh_ . Oh, this was good. This was a good idea. John had good ideas. He was pretty damn smart. Sherlock’s legs found themselves over John’s broad shoulders as his hot, wet, _maddening_ tongue swirled around Sherlock’s tip, bringing him to full hardness. Sherlock’s mouth fell open. He could come from just this, and John’s mouth was barely even on him. He couldn’t form words, only broken off moans, as John’s mouth took more of him in, the velvet heat of his mouth causing Sherlock’s cock to throb gently. He could hardly believe John wanted to do this to him, _cared_ about him enough to do this. It was touching. No, don’t get emotional during a blow job.

John began giving long sucks, soft enough not to overwhelm him, but hard enough for it to feel like he was sucking the sheer arousal right out of Sherlock.

Sherlock threw his head back on the arm of the sofa, groaning deeply, Adam’s apple bobbing. His thighs shook and his toes curled. John’s mouth felt so hot, and Sherlock’s hips bucked after a particularly hard suck. John’s hands came down on his hips, holding them as his head began to bob. Sherlock foggily wondered how John knew how to do this, but he didn’t care at the moment. He never wanted to choke John, but hell, he wanted to thrust. He never felt the need to _fuck_ so badly before. He needed something more. He was hard and aching and he was pretty sure he was leaking. His cock pulsed as his nerve endings sung, intense pleasure swirling from the tip of his cock down to his aching balls. Sherlock looked down, and one look at John’s perfect mouth around his cock made him bite his lip to prevent a moan loud enough to alert Mrs. Hudson. He closed his eyes tightly, his fringe sticking to his forehead.

“John,” he whined, throwing an arm over his eyes. “John, please, more.”

Sherlock heard the cap of the lube open and liquid squirt from the bottle. He wanted to look down, but was sure he would climax if he saw John sucking his cock again. Sherlock’s eyes shot open in surprise when a wet finger stroked around his hole. He panted out of his open mouth. “John?”

John pressed against his perineum and his tongue caressed the underside of his shaft, and Sherlock almost choked. Then, John’s slick finger gently but steadily slid into his entrance.

Sherlock gave a high-pitched whine, brain overwhelmed with pleasure, his cock in the tight, wet, delicious heat of John’s mouth, and John’s finger inside of him, solid, real, touching his inner walls, and Sherlock’s balls tingled sharply. “John, I’m--!”

John’s mouth moved farther down, taking all of Sherlock in and he thrust his finger in and out once.

Sherlock’s orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. His thighs shook violently, his hole clamped around John’s finger, and his balls expelled themselves with almost enough force to make him black out, his cock spurting into John’s mouth. Sherlock threw both arms over his face, closing his eyes and riding his orgasm with red cheeks, the feeling so good he could have screamed. His mind shut off due to the white hot intensity, and when he came to, John removed his arms from his face and caressed his sweaty curls.

He opened his eyes, and noticed no semen on him. Did John swallow? _Oh god…_

John’s face was a beautiful mixture of fondness and arousal. “Did you like that, Sherlock?” He wasn’t teasing, Sherlock noticed fuzzily. He was genuinely asking.

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you,” he said, feeling bashful. His penis was in John’s mouth. He never felt so exposed and vulnerable and safe and cared for.

John kissed his cheek. “You don’t have to thank me. You were _stunning._ ”

Sherlock looked down and saw John’s erection tenting in his boxers. “Let me take care of you,” Sherlock said.

John looked down at his groin. “It won’t take much,” he admitted with a small giggle.

Sherlock smiled. “What do you want, John?”

John breathed heavily through his nose. “I want to--Here.” He quickly shimmied out of his boxers.

Sherlock looked at his cock, completely hard and red at the tip. If he hadn’t just had the most intense orgasm of his life, he was sure he would have been aroused at the sight. John actually looked a little nervous. “Can you…” He put his hands down on the cushions, holding himself up, hovering over Sherlock. “Hold on.” He reached back and put a glob of lube on his palm, stroking it over his dick, his eyelids fluttering.

Sherlock would have helped out, but he was barely functioning after the blow job. Did normal people feel like this after blow jobs?

John lowered himself slightly. “Press your thighs together.”

Sherlock did, watching John.

John slid his slick cock between the tight hold of Sherlock’s warm thighs, groaning. He looked at Sherlock, “Can I? Is this okay?”

“Do whatever you’d like, John,” he told him sincerely, and cupped John’s jaw to bring their lips together. John began thrusting in between his thighs, his arms shaking, hips snapping quickly. Sherlock held John’s biceps, kissing him deeply. After a few thrusts, John was panting too hard to kiss anymore, and curses falling from his lips Sherlock watched, transfixed, as John’s mouth formed a perfect _O,_ his eyes fell shut, and wet heat hit the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. John’s long, deep moan washed over Sherlock and he stroked John’s arms, kissing his jaw. He felt the strength leaving John’s muscles, so he wrapped his arms around him and lowered him to his chest, hand petting his hair as John caught his breath in the crook of his neck.

John said something muffled, so Sherlock asked, “Pardon?”

John turned his face toward Sherlock, a goofy, almost drunken smile on his lips. “I told you it wouldn’t take long.”

Sherlock chuckled, his voice rich and content. “You were rather fast.”

“I may have touched myself while I was working on you.”

The image of John touching himself made Sherlock’s cock stir with interest, drawing both of their attention. They looked at each other blankly, then giggled.

“Already?” John asked giddily.

“Just ignore it,” Sherlock said, his cheeks pink.

“I’m rather flattered.” John rolled off Sherlock onto his side, just barely fitting. They were really too big for the sofa, but neither felt like moving. “I think I made a mess on you,” John said, looking apologetic.

Sherlock spread his thighs and looked down at the sticky mess. He kissed John’s forehead. “John, I love you, but if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’m going to wipe this off.”

John snickered. “Be my guest. Hurry back.”

Sherlock got up, legs feeling a little wobbly, and wiped himself off in the bathroom. He checked on Billie, and upon seeing her safe in the crib, he went into the sitting room. John was pulling up his boxers and smoothing out his white T-shirt. With his hair sweaty and rumpled, he looked adorable and sexy, filling Sherlock’s being with fire. “Can we go to bed? I nearly fell off the couch.”

John’s eyes roamed his naked body unabashedly. “That’s because you’re a bloody giraffe, but sure.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not very tall. You’re just short.”

“Oi,” John glared as he got up. “Don’t think I won’t kick your arse just because I sucked you off.”

Sherlock giggled gleefully. “I love your height,” he said, stepping forward. “It allows me to hold you completely.”

John’s faux glare turned into a soft grin. He laughed through his nose. “Okay. Let’s go to bed, you sap.”

“I am not,” he denied half-heartedly.

“Yeah, you sure,” John took his hand.

They went to bed, kissing under the blankets and talking softly, aware of Billie’s slumbering form just a few feet away. Sated from the blow job, Sherlock yawned and nuzzled into John’s chest, letting sleep take him as John rubbed his back soothingly.

“Love you,” John murmured right as Sherlock was about to drop off.

Sherlock tried to say it back, but he thought it came out mumbled, because John chuckled after. No matter. Sleep now.

* * *

The days passed in a strange mixture of lazy anxiety; they didn’t have much to do, hanging around the flat, but they never relaxed fully. Sherlock and John spent their time occupying themselves with Billie and kissing each other, when they were home. John went to work on Monday and Tuesday and all went well.

Sherlock was not reassured.

Around noon on Wednesday, Sherlock was home alone with Billie. He was standing by the window with her, pointing down to people on the sidewalk, and telling her all of his deductions. She clung to his shirt and sucked her fingers.

Sherlock saw a police car pull up and Lestrade exit the vehicle. “What’s he doing here?” he asked Billie. “I told Mycroft to inform him of everything.” He saw Lestrade knock on the door downstairs, and a minute later Mrs. Hudson let him in. Sherlock sighed and unlocked the front door, taking a few steps back.

Lestrade entered, a large file in his hand, eyes widening and brightening at the sight of Billie. “Hey, you!”

Sherlock groaned, “For god’s sake, why are you here? Did Mycroft not inform you of my situation?”

“He did,” Lestrade nodded. “Well, vaguely. He said you and John won’t be taking cases because you’ve got to deal with Mary, and don’t want to leave the baby alone.”

“Pretty much,” Sherlock said. “Shut the door and lock it, please.”

“Oh, right,” Lestrade turned around and did it.

Billie cooed.

Lestrade turned back. “Yeah, well, I have a cold case for you. I figured you’d get bored sitting around the flat, so, here.” He held it out.

Sherlock shifted Billie so he was holding her with one arm and took it suspiciously. “Why? You never give me case files unless it’s to shut me up because I’m bothering you.”

Lestrade looked sheepish. “What, can’t friends help friends?”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Okay,” Lestrade sighed in defeat. “I just wanted to check up on you. You look a lot better than the last time I saw you, though.”

Sherlock allowed himself to smile. “Yes, well…” He should tell Lestrade about his relationship with John. He’d want to know. “John and I--I think you would say--sorted out our shit.”

Lestrade grinned. “Really? Is that why he’s living here?”

“That, and for Billie’s safety.”

“Oh, is that her name?” Lestrade looked at her.

“Of course it’s her name. Who else would I be talking about?”

Billie tugged on one of Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock gently removed her hand. “No, no, your fingers are covered in saliva.”

Lestrade snorted. “Wow. You actually look...pretty natural with her.”

Sherlock was pleased with this. “I should hope so.”

Lestrade was smiling brightly in a way that made Sherlock a little embarrassed. “So,” Lestrade put his hands in his pockets, “you’re finally with John?”

“Please,” Sherlock glared at him, and walked with Billie back to the window.

“What? I’m just asking.”

“We’re together,” Sherlock confirmed, holding back a smile. “He…” His eyes widened. “You told him to come over here.”

“I did,” Lestrade nodded, “after you left my office. I basically told him he needed to get up off his arse and go see you, because you weren’t well.”

Sherlock wondered how much longer he and John would have been apart, how much longer John would have been panicking every day under Mary’s roof, if Lestrade hadn’t intervened. “Thank you,” he said.

Lestrade waved a hand. “It was nothing. So, you two are officially, permanently together?”

“I hope it’s permanent.”

“I’m sure it will be.” He looked genuinely happy. “I’m really glad for you, Sherlock. You’re practically glowing.”

Sherlock grinned. “It appears John has that effect on me. And Billie.”

Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock’s phone rang in his trouser pocket. He tried fishing it out, but the trousers were tight, so he asked Lestrade, “Hold her for a moment?”

“Of course,” Lestrade said, taking Billie and smiling at her. “Hello, dear.”

Sherlock got the phone out of his pocket and blinked in confusion at the unknown number. He usually didn’t answer unknown numbers, but something in his gut made him unlock the touchscreen and answer.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes?” and unknown female voice asked.

“I just said so,” Sherlock said tiredly.

Her voice went steadily on, cool and professional. “I’m from the Royal London Hospital, and you’re the emergency contact for John Watson.”

An ice block dropped into Sherlock’s stomach.

“Come here, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson has been shot and is going into surgery.”

His brain was frozen but his mouth spoke, “Where was he shot?”

“The thigh, near the femoral artery. He’s lost a lot of blood, Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade’s hand was gripping his shoulder, and he was calling his name.

“I’ll be there,” Sherlock said into the phone, every vein in his body filling with panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeaah, bulletproof vests don't always help.


	12. The Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seeks revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU GUYS SEE THE TRAILER FOR SEASON 4????? IT IS FANTASTIC AND I LOVE HOW IT DIDN'T MENTION MARY'S PREGNANCY AT ALL.

“Sherlock, what is it?” Lestrade asked insistently.

“It’s John!” He stuck his phone in his pocket and dashed across the room, unlocking the door. “He’s been shot,” he said over his shoulder and he thundered down the stairs.

“What?!” Lestrade shouted, chasing after him as best as he could with Billie in his arms.

Sherlock darted out of the building, wearing a dressing gown over dress shirt and trousers, barefoot, stopping when he saw Mycroft’s black car waiting for him.

The back window rolled down and Mycroft appeared. “Get in! You, too, Detective Inspector!”

Lestrade must have been behind him. Sherlock didn’t waste any time looking back to check and instead jumped in the car.

Lestrade got in the back with a disoriented Billie, and the car started driving.

Sherlock was shaking and his pulse hammered violently in his throat.

“We’re on our way to the hospital,” Mycroft said, although it was unnecessary. “They know we’re coming.”

One thing stuck out to Sherlock through his haze of despair. “You were supposed to keep him safe!” he spat at Mycroft.

Mycroft’s fingers tightly gripped the handle of his umbrella, his jaw clenching. “He was wearing the vest and had his gun, was I supposed to assign a bodyguard to watch him?”

“Your cameras!” Sherlock exploded, causing Billie to cry. He was so out of it he didn’t care. “Your stupid cameras,” he pointed a finger, jabbing it into Mycroft’s chest. “They did nothing!”

“We saw her leave the house, but that was it!” Mycroft retorted, removing Sherlock’s finger. “She must have known there were cameras, and snuck past them.”

Lestrade tried rocking Billie, watching them with unease.

“Then what good are you?” Sherlock put his head in his hands, tugging at his curls. John could have been dying because of stupid Mycroft. No, because of him. He shouldn’t have allowed John to go to work. “Where was he shot? What location” Sherlock asked urgently.

“At his clinic,” Mycroft said.

That confirmed it. Sherlock was nauseated. “How?” his voice trembled, and he didn’t care that Mycroft and Lestrade heard.

“We’re still piecing it together,” Mycroft said. “You know who did it.”

“Mary,” Lestrade said darkly. Now that Sherlock wasn’t yelling, Billie’s cries were reduced to soft whimpers and shaky breaths.

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. “She left the house not long before John was admitted into emergency surgery.”

“Fucking bitch,” Lestrade swore, then gasped. “Oh, sorry, Billie.”

Sherlock couldn’t process thought well. His nerves rendered his thoughts simplistic, instinctual. His thoughts were in a jumbled pile, consisting of _Please let John be okay/Is he okay?/Is he dead?/John has to be okay/She said loss of blood/He’s in surgery/Must see John/Must see John/JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_

He must have gotten lost in thought because the next thing he knew, the car skidded to a halt outside of the hospital. Sherlock threw the door open jumped out, bare feet slapping on the cement. The automatic doors slid open as he darted inside, feet on the cool floor in the hospital. He ran to the desk, nearly crashing into it and scaring the receptionist. “John Watson,” he  barked, “where is he?”

The receptionist gulped. “He’s still in surgery,” he said. “You’ll have to wait here.”

He began pacing around the room, not registering the stares of the nearby nurses and people in the waiting room. John was still in surgery. He wasn’t dead yet. But he could die. This was crucial. The ambulance could have been too late and John could have lost too much blood. John got shot and Sherlock wasn’t there. He failed. He failed as a partner. He failed as a friend. He failed John. He should have been there. Or John should have stayed home. He could have done something different. He should have made Mycroft give John a bodyguard. He should have placed a tracker on Mary. He should have put cameras inside of John’s clinic. He didn’t _think._ He didn’t think and it led to John being shot. He was so fucking stupid. His horrid brain was caught up in domestic life and newfound love and it ended up with the love of his life getting seriously injured and this was why Mycroft always warned him caring wasn’t an advantage and he shouldn’t have let his feelings get in the way. His poor John was hurting because of his terrible decisions. It felt like his heart itself was trembling violently. Was he having heart palpitations?

Lestrade walked up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing Sherlock to stop pacing. “Sherlock, you’ve been doing that for a solid seven minutes. Come sit down.”

Sherlock blinked, his pulse still rapid. “Where’s Billie?”

“Your brother’s holding her.”

That was enough to distract him for a millisecond. He looked around the waiting room, and saw Mycroft sitting in one of the chairs, holding a drowsy Billie and looking at her as if she were an alien.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stomped over to him. “Oh, give her to me.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You act as if I took her from you.” He held out his arms robotically, clearly not knowing how to handle her.

Sherlock took her and held Billie against his chest, more for his sake than for hers. He sat in the chair next to Mycroft, the warm, solid weight of her body like a security blanket. He needed her now.

She seemed confused, but didn’t fuss in Sherlock’s arms.

Lestrade sat down, too, and Sherlock had no idea how long they sat there. He stared into space, feet tapping on the ground impatiently, trying to hold back his tremors so Billie wouldn’t get upset. His thoughts turned into an anxious white noise, nothing specific except for John’s name, but troubled, giving him a headache at the center of his forehead. It felt like fluid was swirling and swishing around in his stomach, threatening to come up at any moment. Sweat made his hair and shirt cling to his skin, even though it was cold in the hospital without his coat or socks and shoes.

“Hey,” Lestrade gently took Billie from his arms, and Sherlock wasn’t aware of the protesting whine that came from his throat. “Let me hold her until you calm down,” Lestrade told him gently. “You’re shaking so bad, you might drop her.”

Sherlock nodded. Apparently his attempts to calm down were futile. He trusted Lestrade with her. He clasped his hands together. He felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin. He pulled his dressing gown around himself.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock jumped and his head whipped around to a doctor standing near the front desk. He deduced her as quickly as possible in his state. She looked tired, but the lines around her mouth were soft, and there was no tension in her eyes--she didn’t have any bad news.

“Your friend made it out of surgery,” she announced happily.

Sherlock could have collapsed with relief, and he heard Lestrade release a relieved sigh and a _thank god_ , and sensed Mycroft’s posture relax a bit.

“Where is he?” Sherlock demanded, standing up. The next minute and a half went by in a blur as he vaguely heard what the doctor said and stalked to the nearest elevator, and got to John’s room as fast as he could. He remembered pressing the call button, and the next thing he knew, he was outside of John’s room. He didn’t think he ever moved so fast before.

He opened the door.

The first thing Sherlock detected was the beeping of the heart monitor. His eyes landed on John, who was lying in a bed in the middle of the room, unconscious.

Sherlock had been so desperate to see him, but now that John was in front of him, his shaking legs faltered. He never saw John like this. _He_ was always the one recovering in the hospital. It wasn’t ever supposed to be the other way around. Sherlock quietly shut the door and stepped closer to the bed, stumbling over, until he was standing next to John.

John looked...small, lying there in the bed in the hospital gown. Under the fluorescent lights, his skin was pale as paper, and even through deeply medicated sleep, he looked weak and exhausted. His good leg was under the sheets, but the leg where he was shot was on top of the blanket, a thick gauze covering a spot on his upper thigh. An IV was in John’s right arm, streaming blood into John’s arm from a bag on the other side of the bed.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched painfully as his lip quivered uncontrollably. “John…”

John remained in a deep, silent, drugged sleep.

Sherlock’s trembling knees were about to give out, so he clumsily grabbed a chair that was against the wall and pulled it toward the side of the bed. He collapsed into the chair, and his eyes burned painfully with tears. His vision blurred and he put his head in his hands, crying bitterly, tears streaming down his face. His throat was so tight, it felt like he could gag. His shoulders heaved and he tried to muffle his sobs, not wanting to disturb John. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into his hands. “I’m sorry, John, this is my fault.”

His lungs burned, and he realized he wasn’t breathing much. He lifted his head with a shuddering sob, tears soaking his cheeks and gathering below his jaw, dripping onto his trousers. He reached out an unsteady hand and brushed John’s hair away from his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. His knuckles brushed John’s cheek tenderly. “I’m sorry.”

John slept on.

Sherlock knew John needed to rest, but he wished he would open his eyes. If it were not for the heart monitor and the very slow movement of John’s chest, someone could mistake him for a corpse. He was too pale. Sherlock’s palm rested on John’s cheek, thumb stroking. He was still crying quietly, soft, broken sounds coming from his tightly closed lips, tears leaking from his eyes. He wanted to hold John, but would never risk aggravating the injury.

The door opened, and Sherlock turned around, but didn’t remove his hand from John’s face.

It was Lestrade, Billie, and Mycroft.

Billie seemed like she was falling asleep on Lestrade’s shoulder. Sherlock was glad she wouldn’t remember this.

“Jesus,” Lestrade breathed, looking at John with a grim frown.

Mycroft grimaced. “Sherlock,” he called softly.

Sherlock looked at him, not bothering to speak or wipe away his tears.

“When you ran down the hall, the doctor gave us some information. She said John should make a full recovery as long as he receives no other major injury, or contract any major illness. It will take time, however. I’m sure she’ll give you the details later.”

Sherlock nodded silently, but that did make him feel better. Somehow, hearing the doctor’s words come from Mycroft made them seem more legitimate. He took a deep breath. John would be okay. He swallowed, “How long will it take?” he asked, voice rough.

“Months,” Lestrade said. “She said she wanted to talk about it more with you there, and with John awake.”

The panic was slowly dimming now that Sherlock knew John was alive and would recover, but his heart sunk. Months? They just got together. They were supposed to be in the happy, honeymoon phase, but Mary ruined it.

Mary.

Fire sparked in the pit of his stomach.

Just then, his phone chimed in his pocket from a text message. He looked at his phone and saw that Mary sent him a text. She never texted him. He swiped the screen and opened the message:

_Meet me at the pool. You know the one. It’ll be like old times. xoxo_

“Mycroft,” he looked up, and simply held up his phone screen.

Mycroft walked over and read the message, frowning deeply. “That’s where she went. I have people searching for her. I’ll inform them now,” he moved to take out his phone.

“Wait,” Sherlock held up a hand.

Mycroft paused, curious.

Sherlock didn’t want Mary to be arrested. He didn’t want her to go to trial. He didn’t want her to sit in a jail cell for the rest of her life. That would be too good for her. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to permanently erase her from their lives, and make sure she could never harm anyone again.  He was mindful of the policeman in the room, so he asked, “May we discuss this outside?”

Mycroft raised a delicate eyebrow, knowing what Sherlock wanted. “Detective Inspector,” Mycroft smiled at him, “would you be so kind and watch Billie and John for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said dubiously.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock and Mycroft left the room, shutting the door.

While there were not a lot of people in the hall, they still spoke in hushed tones.

“You want to kill her,” Mycroft said bluntly.

“Yes,” Sherlock didn’t deny, trying to stay calm. He wanted to run to Mary right now and wring her neck.

Mycroft actually looked frightened for a split second, but then it was gone. “You actually want to commit murder.”

“I want to make her pay for what she did to John,” he said hotly, voice raising.

“Sh!” Mycroft hissed. “I know you do,” he continued lower. He looked perturbed. “You remember the _only_ reason you’re in London and not Serbia right now is because of the Moriarty business, yes? And, the only reason why you weren’t sent back after sorting out that hoax was because I pulled every string I could. Killing didn’t work out well last time for you.”

“Mary’s not Magnussen. She’s not important to your people at all,” he tried to reason, hands shaking, but now with fury. “She tried to kill John. You know she did.” His eyes widened. “John’s clinic has cameras!”

“Yes, and I’ve ordered someone to obtain the footage.”

“She’s waiting for me,” Sherlock said. “I need to get to her.”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted unattractively. “You’re not going to change your mind,” he observed.

“Of course I’m not.” Sherlock was really struggling to keep his voice down. “She threatened to kidnap that baby and tried to kill John. She killed people for money in her past. She’s done nothing but hurt people, Mycroft. She must be stopped.”

Mycroft gave a long, unhappy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just wear a vest.”

“That didn’t help John.”

“Just in case,” Mycroft said tiredly. “It can’t hurt. The only reason I’m allowing this, Sherlock, is because this woman has hurt you and John repeatedly.”

“That’s the only reason I want to do it,” he said truthfully.

Mycroft nodded. “John was armed?”

“He took his gun to work, yes.”

“Then his gun and vest must be here somewhere. Stay right here, Sherlock. I’ll retrieve them for you.”

Mycroft walked off to go threaten the hospital workers to give him John’s belongings.

Sherlock stood there, blood boiling. He took out his phone and responded to Mary’s text message:

_Stay where you are. I’m coming for you._

* * *

 

Twenty-five long, agonizing minutes later, Sherlock was at the pool, the same place where Carl Powers died, the same place he met Moriarty. He wore John’s bulletproof vest under his suit, and he pulled out John’s gun, looking around the dark, empty room, the only sounds coming from the swishing of the pool water. He felt a little ridiculous, because he was walking around in a suit with no socks or shoes (he left his dressing gown at the hospital). He had gotten here as quickly as possible. He couldn’t afford to waste time.

“Where are you?” he called out. He was tired of games. He just wanted this nightmare to end.

“Right here,” Mary’s voice came impatiently, and she was standing on the other side of the pool, in the shadows. She walked slowly around the pool, the water casting a strange glow on her skin. She eyed his gun. She was dressed all in black, in the outfit she wore when she shot Sherlock. “Glad you could make it. I decided a little trip down memory lane was appropriate.”

“You were a sniper for Moriarty,” he accused.

“I was,” she confirmed plainly. “I can’t believe it took you this long to figure it out. You really are slow.”

His fingers tightened around the gun. “Did Moriarty assign you to be with John until I returned?”

“He did, before his death. But, I decided to go after John anyway, to keep an eye on him while you were out in Eastern Europe.” She grew serious. “But, I did fall in love with him.”

Sherlock wanted to shoot her right there. As if she loved him. She shot him. “That’s why you were upset when you thought Moriarty was back; you weren’t supposed to care for your assignment. You were more relieved than anyone that it turned out to be a hoax, weren’t you?

“Right, again, good for you!” she smiled patronizingly. “You know, I saw it then, how you cared for him. I saw you panic as you tore the semtex vest off John. I’ve known how you’ve felt before you knew I existed.”

“Why did you do it?” he asked, voice almost cracking with suppressed fury. “If you love him so much, why did you shoot him? He’s your husband.”

She had been slowly walking toward him the whole time. Now, she stopped, and they stood a few feet away from each other. She glared at him. “I couldn’t stand the thought of John being with you, in your home, in your _bed_.” It sounded like she was about to gag. Sherlock wondered if part of her disgust were because he and John were men, but dismissed the thought. She would have hated him if he were a woman, too.

“He betrayed me,” she said coldly. “We made vows. He left me for _you,_ and he was taking my daughter away.”

Sherlock kept the gun pointed at her, not faltering for a second. “You were using a newborn, an innocent, as a tool.”

“Because he was going to leave,” she said, as if she were completely justified.

“So, what, your attitude was that if you can’t have him, no one can?” How childish.

“Precisely.”

He was completely disgusted by her. How anyone could treat John Watson this way was beyond his comprehension. He couldn’t imagine treating anyone that way. “You do not deserve John’s love.”

“And you do?” she spat.

“More than you!” his deep voice thundered and echoed in the room.

Her eyes narrowed.

The fire in his stomach burned with white-hot intensity. “I will do everything to ensure John’s happiness, but you will do everything to ensure _your_ happiness. That’s the difference, Mary. You tried to kill John’s best friend because of _your_ past, _your_ mistakes. I thought he didn’t love me, and I tried to live with that. You know he doesn’t love you, and you hurt him for it.”

Her jaw dropped, looking legitimately affronted. “I told you I would do anything to keep him.”

“So you shot him?!” Sherlock blurted out.

“Because he ran to you!”

“Because I love him more than you do!”

The words hung heavily in the air, his voice echoing off the walls.

Mary’s face was bright red, a vein popping out of her neck. She hadn’t looked this angry when she shot him. She hadn’t looked angry at all, then, but this time, he was getting under her skin. This time, she didn’t have the upper hand.

“I do,” Sherlock maintained, voice lower in volume, but hard and cold as steel. “I don’t think you love him. I think you enjoyed how he clinged to you during his grief. It made you feel important.”

She spluttered. “Grief _you_ caused! How’s that for ensuring his happiness?”

“You know I had to do it,” he snarled. “One thing doesn’t make sense: if you wanted to murder John, why didn’t you shoot him in the head?”

Her reptilian eyes blinked slowly. “I had two plans. Plan A: he died, and I would watch you suffer for the rest of your life, or what remained of it. You wouldn’t be able to go on without him; you relapsed because he got married. If he died, I don’t think you would live much longer or he would survive.”

Sherlock swallowed. He really couldn’t imagine a life without John. But...no, there was Billie. He would have lived for her. His heart would have yearned and weeped for John every day, but he can’t think of himself, and only himself, anymore. “I would have survived for Billie’s sake.”

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “As if you’d be a good parent.”

“Better than an ex-assassin who tried to kill her child’s father,” he shot back.

Mary’s lip twitched. “Plan B was that he survived, and I would lure you here and kill you. It was a win-win situation for me.” She smirked and pulled out her gun with lightning speed. “You really think you’re a better shot than I am?”

Sherlock refused to let himself feel crippling fear. He had a mission. He had to fend off his fear for John. “You really think John will go back to you if you kill me?”

“No,” she conceded, “but then he’ll suffer for the rest of his life without you--if he survives your death a second time.”

She loved no one but herself. She was willing to put anyone, not matter who, in pain, as long as she came out on top.

“You know that no matter what, you’re going to jail? My brother--”

“I’m well aware,” she said testily. “But, I don’t care. Why should I?” Through the loathing, a hint of sadness appeared in her eyes. “I can’t have John no matter what. He’s devoted to you, and always will be. Even if he never discovered I shot you, he wouldn’t have been mine. He was focused on you more than me at our own bloody wedding, I have nothing to lose anymore. John and Billie were all I had. I have no friends or family. ”

Sherlock could not find an ounce of pity in his heart. “Tough life, being an assassin?” he put on a fake pout.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” she barked, teeth bared, clearly reaching the end of her rope, looking like an angry snake.

“This is why you acted that way in my kitchen,” he said. “You realized you lost.”

Mary knew what he meant. “I told you I have nothing to lose. Why shouldn’t I try to kill one of you?”

So, to her, life without John was not worth living, and if she were going to prison, she might as well create as much damage as possible. It sounded like her. Sherlock knew his time was running out. Mary was a better shot than he was, or more specifically, she was _quicker_ with a gun, so he would have to throw her off guard.

“Can I tell you something?” Sherlock asked quickly, his tone forcibly light. “One last thing?”

She looked confused.

“It’ll only take a moment.”

“What is it?” she asked impatiently.

“Did John tell you why he chose the name ‘Billie’?”

“No,” she said slowly. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sherlock’s lips pulled up in a wicked grin. “My full name is _William_ Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Mary gasped sharply, features contorting hideously. “He--?”

Sherlock took the opportunity and raised his arm, veins pumping with adrenaline, his entire body on fire, and pulled the trigger, shooting her in the forehead, like he had with Magnussen. He wouldn’t waste time with bullet wounds anywhere else. The game was over.

Her body collapsed to the hard ground, on her back. Her arms were splayed out, and her legs twitched momentarily, then stilled. The fingers around her gun slackened.

Sherlock walked up to her and peered down at her face. A red dot was on her forehead, blood beginning to trickle, and her eyes were open. Sherlock heard a sound, and realized it was him, breathing heavily out of his mouth. She was dead, but he still felt angry. “You didn’t deserve him,” he told the corpse. “You didn’t deserve this death, either. You deserved a long, painful death,” he growled, voice rough.

Of course, the corpse did not respond.

Sherlock stared down at her as he got his phone from his pocket, with the irrational fear she would jump up and spring back to life.

“It’s done,” he said when Mycroft picked up the phone.

Mycroft sounded relieved. “You’re all right?”

“I haven’t got a scratch.” He was disturbed by her empty, staring eyes. He leaned down and closed them, then wiped his hand on his suit jacket.

“Good. The story you will stick to is that she told you to come to the pool, she pulled a gun on you, and you shot her in self-defense. Got it?”

“That’s not far from the truth,” Sherlock admitted.

“I’ll send someone for the body. There will be a court case, but the footage from the clinic does show Mary entering and shooting John, so that combined with you shooting out of self-defense should not land you any jail time.”

He shivered, thinking of John being attacked at work. He never wanted to see that footage. He was sure it would give him nightmares. He would ask John to tell him exactly what happened when he woke up.

“I’ll send a car for you,” Mycroft said. “You want to return to the hospital, I presume?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.

“A car will be there in a moment.”

Sherlock pocketed his phone and looked down at Mary’s corpse. He wasn’t comprehending it. He wanted her dead, and now she was. She wasn’t a threat anymore. She couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. She was out of their lives. They could move on. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath. He hated her. He loathed her. He was disgusted by her. He had wanted her to suffer more. But, that didn’t mean killing came easily to him. He put the safety back on the gun and put it in his pocket, wrapping his arms around himself. There were months or emotional torture, and it was over in an instant. It felt odd. He wanted John.

* * *

 

In the car, Sherlock gave Mycroft the gun.

“I don’t believe they allow those in hospitals,” Mycroft said. He handed Sherlock a brown paper bag. “Here you are. Inside is a pair of socks, your shoes, and a couple bottles for Billie.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said skeptically.

Mycroft sighed. “Don’t look like that, Sherlock. I do want to help.”

Sherlock put on his socks, avoiding Mycroft’s stare. He didn’t know what to say. His emotions were too close to the surface for this.

“I’m relieved Ms. Morstain no longer poses a threat to your family,” Mycroft said stiffly.

His family. That’s right--they were. “I am, too.”

When he returned to the hospital, John was slowly waking up, brows deeply furrowed.

“John!” Sherlock rushed to his bedside, heart pounding with glee, ignoring Lestrade. He set the bag with Billie’s bottles on the floor, and for the first time since that awful phone call he received in the flat, Sherlock felt alive.

John smacked his lips and licked the inside of his mouth, which must have felt dry from disuse. “Sherlock?” he asked weakly.

Sherlock took his hand between both of his, squeezing. “John, I’m here.” The tight tension that had captured his heart evaporated.

John groaned in his throat, and Sherlock’s thumb ran over the top of his hand.

Lestrade tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “Want to be alone for a minute?”

“Please,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. He saw Billie asleep on Lestrade’s shoulder. “How’s Billie?”

“She’s fine. She cried a little while you were gone, but I think she was just tired.”

Sherlock nodded. “Okay. Give me five minutes with John, and I’ll take her.”

“Okay,” Lestrade said and took a sleeping Billie out into the hall.

Sherlock looked down at John.

John’s eyelids were twitching and he was frowning, moaning in pain.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips against John’s forehead. “You’re okay, John.”

John sluggishly blinked his eyes open. “Sher--?”

Seeing John’s deep blue eyes filled Sherlock with peace. “I’m here.”

John rolled his head on the pillow, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Billie? Where’s Billie?”

“With Lestrade in the hall,” he told him gently. “She’s safe. She’s sleeping.”

John blinked slowly, and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Thank god.”

Sherlock couldn’t resist pressing another kiss to John’s forehead, and he realized warm tears were trickling from his eyes. This time, his tears were not bitter, but relieved.

“Mmm, no,” John slurred, clumsily cupping Sherlock’s cheek. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

 _Sweetheart._ John really must have been out of it from the morphine if he used that word. But, that meant his walls were down. Did he always associate that word with Sherlock, and stay silent? Sherlock wasn’t opposed to the word, as long as it came from John.

“I’m happy,” Sherlock brought John’s hand to his lips and kissed it. His breath rushed over John’s skin. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” John said drowsily. “I will be, at least. C’mere.” He opened his arms a little.

Sherlock hesitated. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“The wound is down there. Hug me,” his hands opened and closed and he pouted, looking like a little kid.

Sherlock couldn’t resist that. He hugged John’s shoulders, burying his face in his neck, breathing him in. “My John,” he mumbled. “My darling John. I thought I lost you,” his voice shook.

John hugged him back as best as he could, but his arms were weak and heavy with fatigue and morphine. “I’m okay,” he whispered thickly.

Sherlock relished their embrace, thinking that just a few hours ago, he had worried he would never be embraced by John again. He wanted to lay on top of John, cover him entirely, but knew he would have hurt his wound. He wanted to take him home and put him to bed, hold him forever. John was going to be okay, he knew that, and more tears slowly escaped his eyes. Two minutes passed by in relieved, loving silence, until Sherlock felt John’s arms start to slip away from his neck.

He took John’s arms and gently lowered them onto John’s torso. “You’re falling asleep,” he whispered.

John opened his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Sherlock kissed his eyelids delicately.

John shook his head again. “No, not yet.”

“Are you in pain?” Sherlock asked, sitting down in the chair next to the bed.

“Yeah,” John grinned weakly. “Reminds me of Afghanistan. It stings. But I can take it. Long as I don’t move ’round much.”

“I should turn up your morphine--”

“No,” John protested, holding his hand. “I wanna talk to you a bit. While I’m awake.”

“Okay,” Sherlock sat back. He loved the warm weight of John’s hand in his, and his thumb moved to feel John’s steady pulse. “Tell me what happened, John.”

He sighed heavily. “I was working, wearing the vest, had my gun in my desk.” He paused, yawned, and groaned in frustration.

“Take your time,” Sherlock reassured him. “You just woke up.”

John blinked sleepily. “I was in my office, and I dunno, she just came in. Before I could react, her gun was out, and she just shot me.” He yawned again. “I’m a fuckin’ soldier, and my reflexes weren’t fast enough.”

“She didn’t give you time to think, did she?” Sherlock smoothed his hand over John’s hair slowly, petting him. “The encounter was under a minute, I expect.”

“You’re right.” John’s eyes were drooping from Sherlock’s ministrations. “She just burst in and did it. Didn’t say anything to me. I think she marched in, did it, and fled.”

“Well, she’s gone now,” Sherlock brushed back John’s growing fringe.

“Hm?” John’s eyes opened more. “She’s gone?”

Sherlock’s hand paused. “I killed her.”

John’s eyes widened instantly. “You did?”

“I did.” He didn’t know how John would feel about that. “She told me to come to the pool, remember, with Moriarty?”

“I remember.”

“She confirmed she worked for him, and she was one of the snipers, all those years ago. She had been assigned to keep an eye on you.”

John’s face fell. “Doesn’t surprise me. I guess she never cared about me, then.”

Sherlock’s heart ached. “She said she loved you, but John, I don’t think she was capable of caring for anyone but herself.”

“I guess not,” John agreed, disheartened.

“I love you,” Sherlock told him.

John smiled. “Yeah, that’s all that matters. Love you, too.” He shook his head, processing everything. “I’m glad you killed her,” he said gravely, or gravely as he could in his tired, drugged state. “She wanted to kill you again.”

“And she wanted to kill you. She wanted to kill you because you left her, and wanted to watch me suffer.”

“Bitch,” John said dryly. “Well, she failed. I lost a lot of blood,” he looked at the IV in his arm, “but good thing I had my mobile in my pocket. I phoned the ambulance just in time.”

“I’m glad,” Sherlock kissed his cheek. He looked down. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Hush,” John dismissed, eyelids drooping again. “You were home with Billie. I’m glad you’re both fine.” He looked up at Sherlock sincerely. “I’m glad you’re safe. I love you.”

Sherlock kissed his lips chastely. “I love you, too.”

John smiled lazily. “You won’t kiss me more?”

“I want you to rest,” he said. “If we start kissing, we won’t stop, and I don’t want to cause you any strain.”

John chuckled tiredly. “True. Did she say anything else?”

“Yes. She anticipated you surviving, and said she would kill me and watch you suffer instead. She didn’t care about the outcome of today--as long as she killed one of us and the other suffered. She knew she lost you, so she felt as if she had nothing to lose.”

“Fuckin’ psycho,” John muttered.

“Indeed.”

John grinned softly. “She’s really gone?”

“She is. I checked.”

John closed his eyes. “We finally don’t have to worry.”

“I know,” Sherlock smiled. “We can live with Billie and Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street for the rest of our days.”

“For the rest of our days,” John agreed, yawning. “Sounds perfect. The nightmare’s over.”

“It is.” Sherlock found himself absent of fear for the first time in months. “I feel--free.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s not really hittin’ me right now, but it will.” He frowned, blinking rapidly. “I think I’m falling asleep. Fuck. I wanna talk to you more.”

“You have a serious wound,” Sherlock’s eyes flickered down to John’s injury. “You need rest.”

“I know, I know. Can I see Billie before I sleep?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock stood up. “I’ll get her.”

Sherlock walked out of the room and saw Lestrade sitting in a chair with Billie.

“How is he?” Lestrade asked.

“Groggy and in pain, but cohesive. He wants Billie.”

“Okay,” Lestrade handed her to Sherlock.

She whined and nuzzled into Sherlock’s chest.

“Look,” Lestrade stood, stretching, “I’ll come back a little later. I’ll leave you three alone for awhile.”

“You’re welcome inside, you know.”

Lestrade grinned. “I know, thanks. But you need to be alone with John right now. Well, alone with her. I’m really fucking happy John is okay. I’ll stop by a little later. By the way,” he crossed his arms, “where did you just come from, a few minutes ago?”

“I had a discussion with Mary,” he said evenly.

Lestrade stared at him. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I know you’re not. Mary pointed a gun on me. It was out of self-defense, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to receive some order from your brother not to pursue this, aren’t I?”

“Most likely.”

“Fine. If she weren’t a bloody awful person, you’d be in trouble.”

“I’m well aware,” Sherlock gave him a shit-eating grin, and went back into John’s room, shutting the door. He carried Billie over and placed her on John’s chest.

John smiled and wrapped his arms around her. “There she is.”

She yawned, but didn’t fuss, falling back asleep almost instantly.

“She had a long day, too,” Sherlock sat in the chair.

“She did. Has she been fed?”

“I have bottles for her.”

“Feed her when she wakes up for me?”

“Absolutely.”

John kissed the top of Billie’s head. He rested his head on the pillow, finally allowing his eyes to close, and it barely took a minute for him to enter deep sleep again. Sherlock put his elbows on his knees, his chin on his folded hands. He watched over his slumbering family. John had a long road of recovery ahead, and once his medication dosage was lowered, he would be feeling the pain more. But, they would be okay. Mary was gone. They could love each other freely.

Sherlock breathed a long, refreshing sigh of relief.

They were safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story isn't over yet! If you've read my stuff before, you know I like to put in fluffy epilogues. 
> 
>  


	13. Recovery and the Next Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both begin to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took me a little long, but I went on vacation for a few days!  
> There will be one final chapter after this, but that's just because the epilogue was getting too long, so I decided to divide it into two parts. I'm already over 1,000 words into the last chapter :)

Sherlock stayed awake all night, watching John and Billie sleep. It felt surreal, when he was completely alone with his thoughts in the darkness of the night, the only sounds coming from beeping machines and faraway footsteps of nurses. In one day, his John was nearly killed, and he killed Mary. He didn’t know how to absorb this. He wanted to curl up with John until he felt better, but he couldn’t. The bed was too small, and he couldn’t risk irritating John’s injury. He didn’t know why he felt this way, because he had wanted Mary gone. He had wanted her out of their lives for good. He had wanted her _dead._ He had wanted to punish her for hurting them so much, but when it came down to him pulling the trigger, he felt strange. Was he in shock? He didn’t think so. He had felt blind fury when he killed Magnussen, but that man was vile, and destroyed people. Mary wasn’t better though, not really, just a different kind of repulsive.

In the quiet night, he could admit to himself that he wished it never had to come to this. He was more than glad he had John as a romantic partner, but he wished they could have figured everything out before anyone got hurt. He wished she never entered their lives to begin with. He wished he never allowed himself to let his guard down around her, up until the night she shot him. She did drop little insults here and there, but Sherlock convinced himself to like her for John. When she tried to kill him, the utter betrayal hurt; the betrayal with no hesitation hurt.

Maybe that was why he felt worse about killing Mary than Magnussen. She hurt them both more than Magnussen did, but at some point, he and John liked and trusted her. Obviously, John used to love her, so he must have felt worse about her than Sherlock did. He knew John’s recovery was not going to be sorely physical. They needed each other now. Sherlock sighed slowly and wished John would wake up and talk to him.

Sometime in the night (or early morning, Sherlock wasn’t sure), Billie started to cry, and John woke up, groaning and mumbling in confusion.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock murmured and swiftly scooped her into his arms. “She’s just hungry. Go back to sleep.”

John looked like he wanted to say something, but fatigue and morphine took over, and his eyes fell shut.

Sherlock fed Billie one of the bottles Mycroft gave him, relaxing as much as he could in the hard, plastic chair. It felt good to hold her. Once again, he was eternally grateful she would not remember a single thing. She would grow up without a mother, but Sherlock figured having two doting fathers would be better than having one good father and one homicidal mother. She would be okay. He would make sure of it.

He spent hours lost in thought, holding Billie against his heart and recovering from the pool, and was startled when sunlight hit his face from the window. Morning already? He yawned and looked down at Billie. A hospital was no place for her. She deserved to be in her warm crib with all of her toys. He bit his lip and looked at John. He didn’t want to leave him, not until he had a chance to speak with the doctor about his condition. Maybe John didn’t care, but Sherlock didn’t want him to wake up alone, either.

He needed a babysitter for her. He had to remind himself that it was irrational to feel fear, because no one would try to take Billie or harm her. He could let her stay with Mrs. Hudson. Everything would be fine. Mrs. Hudson adored her, and they were safe. They were safe.

He fished his phone out of his pocket. It was on 33% battery. Out of all things, Mycroft forgot to provide him with his phone charger. Damn. He had to make this quick. It was nearing 6:30 in the morning, and he hoped Mrs. Hudson was awake.

Thankfully, she picked up.

“Sherlock? Where are you all?” she asked worriedly.

_Ah._ No one told her. Sherlock spoke quietly to avoid waking John and Billie. “John was shot yesterday--”

“What?!”

“--and so he’s in the hospital, recovering. I need to ask a favor. Will you watch Billie for a little while?”

“Of course!” she nearly exclaimed. “She’s no trouble at all! She’s with you?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“What hospital is it? What room?”

Sherlock told her, and just as he was about to hang up, the female doctor from yesterday came into the room.

“I have to go,” he told Mrs. Hudson and hung up.

“Hello,” the doctor smiled kindly keeping her voice low. “He’s still asleep?”

_Obviously._ Sherlock watched her silently.

“Well, he needs to rest. I’m Doctor Martinez. May I speak with you about Doctor Watson’s condition?”

“All right,” he said.

Sherlock had a difficult time focusing on what Doctor Martinez was saying, even though he wanted to know about John’s condition, catching snippets here and there: the bullet hit his femoral artery, but didn’t sever it, they were able to extract the bullet without a problem, but John lost more blood during surgery, etc. Sherlock was tired and upset. It was difficult for his mind not to wander off. He shook his head. He needed to listen.

“--it’s a good thing he called the ambulance when he did,” Doctor Martinez said, a small frown on her face. “The bullet could have severely damaged his artery if it stayed in much longer. There shouldn’t be any long term damage to his leg, however.”

“How long will he have to stay here?” Sherlock asked. He hoped it wouldn’t have to be long. He wanted John home, and he knew John hated staying in hospitals.

“It all depends on the speed of his recovery, but I estimate about three to five weeks. Full recovery for the wound should take about five months. I'll go over all this again when he wakes up.”

A month in the hospital? Unacceptable. If Sherlock had been able to leave the hospital a couple days after his bullet wound, John should be able to leave sooner. Granted, Sherlock wound up back in the hospital due to internal bleeding, but John’s injury was less serious than his had been. He would have to see what strings Mycroft could pull, but he kept silent. For now.

“If he stays off his feet and doesn’t receive any other serious injury,” she said, “there’s a chance he could recover a little more quickly. I advise against him returning to work with you until the wound is completely healed.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “With me?”

She smiled. “I’ve read the blog, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock let himself smile. “Ah.”

She looked at Billie. “Beautiful baby, by the way. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he smiled proudly, although he didn’t have much of a reason to be proud; he didn’t contribute to the process of creating her at all. She looked like a carbon copy of John. He was glad she had none of Mary’s features.

But, she congratulated him. Did she suspect they were together? “How do you know she's mine?"

She shrugged. “I always thought you two would get together one day.”

Sherlock felt himself blush. “I see.”

Her professionalism returned. “I’ll be back later in the day to check up on his condition,” she said. “Goodbye for now, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said, watching her leave.

Before he could even blink, the door opened again and Mrs. Hudson came inside.

Sherlock immediately pressed a finger to his lips, his head cocking to the side to gesture at the sleeping John.

Mrs. Hudson’s hands flew to her mouth on horror, holding back a cry. “Oh, _John,”_ she whispered into her palms.

“Hello.”

“Sherlock,” she whispered, “what happened?”

“It was Mary,” he said grimly.

She looked furious. “That--!”

Sherlock pressed his finger to his lips again.

“Sorry,” she winced. “That bloody menace!”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson. I can assure you Mary is no longer a threat.” He swallowed. Should he tell her the truth? Not now. He wasn’t up for it right now.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’ll tell you some other time. Please take Billie home for a little while.”

“Of course, dear,” she held out her arms, and Sherlock gave Billie to her. He kept trying not to feel anxious. No one was going to try to take her away or hurt her. She could spend the rest of the morning with Mrs. Hudson. It would be okay.

“Will you come home at all today?” she asked.

He looked at John. “I’ll try.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

Mrs. Hudson left with Billie, and Sherlock sat back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. As much as he wasn’t okay, it felt good not to have a panic attack over his daughter’s safety the moment she was out of his sight. He reminded himself, again, that Mary was gone, and wouldn’t threaten Billie anymore. _She’ll be fine. The flat is safe. Mrs. Hudson is responsible. She’ll be fine._

An hour slowly passed, Sherlock’s eyes locked on John, until John started to move. John frowned, his hand lazily grasping the sheet, a low groan coming from his throat.

“John?” Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the edge of the bed.

John’s eyes moved beneath his lids, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. He sighed and his eyelids fluttered open. For a beat, he simply stared up at Sherlock hazily, then recognition came in. “Hi,” he said, voice scratchy.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock kissed his cheek. “How do you feel?”

John laughed through his nose, rubbing his eye with his knuckle. “Like shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock frowned. “Do you want me to turn up your morphine?”

“Nah, it’s okay.” He yawned and mumbled, “Give me a minute to wake up.”

“Okay.” Sherlock started petting John’s hair, which was an equal amount of comfort for him as it was for John. Having John awake did make him feel a little better. It was a reminder that, if he hadn’t killed Mary, she would have just gone after them again, and he might not have had an opportunity to caress John like this again. But they could be together now. It was worth it. But that didn’t make it easy.

A couple minutes passed, and then John tried to turn on to his side and winced.

“Easy,” Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders stopped him. “I wouldn’t do that, John.”

“Yeah, got it,” he said through clenched teeth, and Sherlock wished he could help him. John exhaled deeply. “It stings and aches like hell, I won’t lie, but I’m okay.”

Sherlock stared at him in annoyance. “You’re clearly not.”

“Okay, I’m not, but I’ll manage.” His eyes widened. “Where’s Billie?”

“With Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock informed him. “I asked her to babysit for awhile. I didn’t want to leave you here, but I didn’t want to keep her in this hospital room, either.”

John relaxed. “Okay. Jesus, Mary’s gone. I forgot for a minute.”

Sherlock’s insides rolled uneasily. “I know.”

John looked at him. “You okay?”

“You’re the one with the bullet wound, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” he asked incredulously.

“I am, yeah. I love you, Sherlock, but you look dreadful.”

Sherlock hadn’t looked at his reflection since yesterday morning. “I do?”

“Looks like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

“I didn’t,” he said truthfully, running a hand through his uncombed curls self-consciously.

John wasn’t happy with that. “You know that’s no good for you.”

“I’m fine, John,” he waved his hand dismissively.

John, somehow, looked more tired than he did a couple minutes ago. “Please cut the crap, Sherlock. Tell me what’s wrong for once, please?”

Sherlock felt sheepish. He looked down at his hands. “It was just a lot,” he said.

“Yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling _me_.”

Sherlock’s head shot up, but he saw that John’s eyes were smiling. Still, he muttered an apology, “Sorry, I’m being insensitive.”

“No, it’s okay, you went through a lot, too,” John said.

“I didn’t take a bullet yesterday,” he looked down at his lap again.

“No, but you did before, and I know--what you did--it still wasn’t easy, was it?” he asked, tired eyes filled with sympathy.

He shook his head mutely.

“I know, Sherlock,” he reached out his hand and touched Sherlock’s arm. “I know. Wasn’t easy with Magnussen either, was it? I never asked.”

Sherlock touched his hand. “It wasn’t, really, no.” He felt selfish. This shouldn’t have been about him. “She was your wife, and she betrayed you.”

“She betrayed me a long time ago,” John said quietly. “She betrayed me the second she shot you. This--I dunno, maybe I’m fucked up, but this doesn’t feel as bad as when she shot you. Emotionally, I mean.”

Sherlock’s thumb ran over John’s knuckles. “I wish none of this happened,” he confessed.

John sighed heavily. “I know, me too.”

Something in his tone made Sherlock’s eyes flicker up to meet John’s.

John had tears in his eyes.

“John!” Sherlock got up and hugged him tightly, arms around his shoulders.

John’s chuckles were wet. “Sherlock, I’m okay. I’m sorry. It’s the fucking morphine. Don’t have a filter right now.”

Sherlock pressed tiny kisses to his shoulder.

“Sherlock, that tickles,” John giggled.

Sherlock pulled back, gazing down into his eyes, which looked extra blue and shimmering with moisture. His thumb brushed a stray tear away. “Tell me what’s on your mind, John,” he sat down, not taking his eyes away from John’s.

John bit the inside of his cheek. “If I didn’t propose to her, none of this would’ve happened. I should’ve cut things off with her ages ago.”

“John,” he said gently, “we’ve discussed this. This is not your fault; it is not anyone’s fault but hers. If you hadn’t been with her, Billie would not exist.”

“Yeah,” John nodded to himself, “yeah, you’re right. Sorry. I’m not thinking straight.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sherlock said.

They sat in heavy silence, lost in their own heads.

“I think,” John spoke, “I’m not so beaten up about this because I was expecting it. I mean, I thought she would go after you, but I’m not surprised, in the end. And...it feels like relief, now that she finally made her move, and it’s all over. No more living in fear.”

Sherlock nodded. “I see. I know what you mean. I--I hated her, but ever since the pool last night, I don’t know, I don’t feel satisfied.”

“You’re not supposed to like killing someone,” John said seriously, “even if they deserved it. I’ve killed people. I killed a man on our first case because he wanted to kill you. Still wish I didn’t have to.”

The reminder of their first case filled his chest with warmth. “Our first case. I remember.” Things were so simple back then. They had no idea what they were in for, or who they would be to each other.

John smiled softly. “Look, Sherlock, we’re two fucked up blokes. We’ve done stuff we’re not proud of and been through bloody awful things. But, we’ve got a little girl to think about, and we don’t have Mary in our lives anymore. It took a lot of shit, but we’ve figured it all out. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock wanted to kiss him desperately. “It will be. May I kiss you?”

John got that beautiful, dreamy look in his eye that appeared whenever they were about to kiss. “You needn’t ask.”

Sherlock tenderly cupped John’s face and kissed him softly, nearly shaking with relief at having John’s warm lips caress his. John was here, solid and warm and real. Alive. As they kissed slowly, John’s words settled in his brain: it’ll be fine. The damage from Mary would not heal overnight, but in time, it would. They could heal each other. No more living in fear. They could do whatever they wanted now. They would live together forever. Right? John wanted forever, didn’t he? Sherlock knew he did, now. He wanted John’s to be his, completely. He wanted to give John everything Mary did not: a great life filled with happiness, tender domesticity, affection, love, and…

“You’re thinking too loud,” John complained into the kiss.

“I love you so much,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, needing to say it.

“Love you, too,” John mumbled back, languidly, taking Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth.

Sherlock pulled back enough to look into John’s eyes, their noses almost brushing.

John looked up at him adoringly. “You have circles under your eyes.”

That’s not what he expected to hear. “So do you,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to John’s lips.

“You should go home and rest a bit.”

“In your dreams,” he rumbled, kissing him again.

John grinned. “You’ll have to go home sometime for Billie.”

“Later, I promise.”

“Then rest here.”

“I want to talk to you,” he pouted.

John kissed his bottom lip. “I do, too, but I think I have about two minutes before I pass out again.”

That reminded him. “Your doctor came in while you were asleep.”

“Yeah?”

“She said you should be discharged in about three to five weeks, and it’ll take three to four months for a full recovery.”

“Three to five weeks?” John looked scandalized. “That’s bullshit. I’m a bloody doctor. I know what to do and what not to fucking do.”

Sherlock laughed. “I know, John. I’ll see if Mycroft could pull some strings, but we can worry about that later.”

John looked like he still wanted to be angry, but he yawned, his nose scrunching up. Billie did the same thing when she was tired, Sherlock noted mentally.

“Lie with me,” John said drowsily.

Sherlock shook his head, and the tips of their noses touched. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

John pushed him back slightly. “This side of me is fine,” he ran his hand over the side of body opposite his wound. “Just go on the other side of the bed. You won’t roll on top of me.”

Sherlock really, really wanted to. “The doctors would not approve.”

“You don’t care about that.”

“I could aggravate the wound--"

“Sherlock,” John cut him off softly, “you won’t. Like I said, just stay on that side. I want you here.”

Sherlock bit his lip, looking at the other side of the bed, and gave in. He padded over to the right side of the bed and carefully climbed on, resting his hand gently on John’s chest and his head on the pillow.

They both sighed in contentment.

“That’s better,” John said, kissing the top of Sherlock’s curly head.

Now that he was lying down, he really did feel tired. He let his eyes close and his fingers curled loosely around John’s hospital gown. Just yesterday, at this time, John was just going off to work. Everything changed so quickly. If Mary had been a little more precise, Sherlock would have been mourning John right now. His throat felt tight. Life was truly short and unpredictable. He didn’t want to hold back an ounce of his love anymore. He wanted John to know just how cherished he was. His hard heartbeats made him inhale sharply.

“What’s wrong?” John slurred, head turning to mumble in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock quelled the fluttering he felt in his chest. He needed to calm down. “Nothing, John. I just truly love you. Go to sleep.”

“Love you, too. Gettin’ upset again?”

“I’m okay, John. I promise. Go to sleep, and I’ll sleep, too.” He nuzzled his face into John’s neck for emphasis.

“M’kay.” John was quiet for a beat, and then reassured Sherlock again, “We’ll be okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock believed it.

* * *

 

_6 Months Later_

 

Sherlock’s pacing was interrupted by an alert from his phone that John updated his blog. Curious, he unlocked his touchscreen and began to read the new entry.

 

_17th September 2016_

_Hello, everyone. I suppose it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Last time you heard from either of us, I was on my honeymoon with Mary._

_Well, a lot has happened since then._

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. John was right; a lot had happened since Sherlock hacked into his blog and made that miserable post, mocking John and his wedding out of heartbreak. A lot had happened for the better, in the end. Sherlock continued reading John’s blog, holding onto his phone tightly.

_I suppose you’ve heard bits and pieces from the papers. I won’t go into every detail here, because it is a rather private matter and a really long story, but I’ll get right down to it. Mary and I were never meant to last. I convinced myself I wanted to be with her because Sherlock was gone, but as soon as he came back, I knew I wanted him instead._

Sherlock’s eyesight blurred.

_In ways I’d rather not discuss on this public forum, Mary hurt Sherlock. But, she was pregnant with my child, and I felt obligated to stay with her, although it grieved me to do so. I felt guilty, not only because I was staying with a person who hurt the most important person in my life, but because my heart didn’t belong to her, and it wasn’t fair. I only stayed married to her because I thought it was the “right” thing to do. There wasn’t really much love, by the end._

Sherlock’s heart thudded.

_Mary gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl on 5th March, 2016. I don’t have to describe her, because I’ve attached some photos at the end of this ramble. We tried caring for her as a family unit, but it didn’t work. We argued too much, and in the back of my mind, Sherlock was always there. He drove us to the hospital, nearly crashing into traffic and everything. He stayed in the hospital to make sure Mary and my daughter were perfectly healthy because he cared. Don’t let any tabloid tell you differently: Sherlock Holmes has the biggest, kindest heart I know. He’s still a dick at times, yeah, but he’s a good man. He's the best man I've ever had the pleasure of knowing._

Sherlock swallowed thickly and kept reading.

_Like I said, I won’t go into all the private details of the last several months, but he wasn’t happy with me settling down with Mary. He made that very clear, in his own way. We both decided we couldn’t take it anymore and got together._

_Yes, all right, get all of your immature sniggering out now. Sherlock and I are together, and it’s going to stay that way, so bloody get used to it._

Sherlock laughed quietly at John’s indignant tone.

_I just couldn’t stand to see him looking so dejected anymore (Sherlock, don’t argue--that’s how you were, and it’s okay; I was, too)._

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_We admitted what we were to each other, and I knew I had to divorce Mary. She wasn’t exactly pleased about that. Okay. I can’t really sugarcoat this, especially since it made the papers, but Mary came after me as a sort of revenge for leaving her, and then she lured Sherlock into the pool (remember, where we first met that Moriarty nut job? Time flies, doesn’t it?), and tried to kill him, and, well, he had to defend himself. It's a shame, really. It never had to be that way._

This was the narrative Mycroft told them to go with, the narrative that saved Sherlock from jail time. Sherlock was fine with this. No one but the three of them needed to know the full truth.

_He wasn’t happy about it, mind you. He still isn’t. But he didn’t want to die. Obviously. Who wants to die? He didn’t want to die because of me, and because of our daughter. That’s right:_ _our_ _daughter. Sherlock is better with kids than I could have ever imagined. He welcomed her into his home without a moment’s hesitation. The day she was born, he held her like she was made of glass. I’ll admit that was one of the moments I really regretted my marriage. I don’t know, something about seeing him hold her like that for the first time, I don’t know. It just got to me. It was beautiful to watch, but I’ll stop before he marches over and kills me._

Sherlock’s cheeks were warm, but he was smiling.

_I’m fine, by the way. It’s been a few months, and my leg is all healed up. I still might wait a couple weeks to go running with him on cases again, but I’m really not in pain anymore. I had to walk with a bloody cane for awhile--not fun, especially when you have a baby._

_Sherlock was incredible during my recovery. He helped in every single way possible. He was in the hospital with me every day, waited on me hand and foot, until I stopped that because I felt like an invalid, and he took care of our daughter when I couldn’t. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what I would have done._

_But, like I said, I’m about 98% healed now. We’re fine. Sherlock and I are fine, and we feel like we don’t have to worry anymore, you know? We can live how we want to now. How we were always meant to be._

_With Billie, too, of course. That’s her name: Billie Hannah Watson._

_When I started this blog, I was alone, and had no idea what to do with myself. If someone had told me six years ago that one day, I’d be in love with a genius detective and raise a little girl with him, I’d laugh in their face. But this is my life now, and if you’ve read this blog for years, you know it took a lot to get here. But I don’t regret any of it.  I don’t know what I did to deserve them, but they’re everything to me. Everything._

_Wow. Here are pictures of Sherlock and Billie to offset me being sappy:_

Sherlock’s eyes widened with horror.

There were three photos at the bottom of the blog post.

The first one looked like it was taken within the last couple weeks, given Billie’s size, and was of Sherlock making an utterly ridiculous face at her. His eyes were huge and his lips were pursed like a duck’s bill, with his thumbs inside of his ears and hands spread wide. He looked like an absolute imbecile, but Billie was laughing, her big toothless smile and sparkling eyes making Sherlock melt even now.

In the second one, Billie appeared to be around four months old. Sherlock was about to wonder how the picture could have been taken, since John was still recovering at the time and was in no state to sneak around and take pictures, but there was a caption the picture: _Mrs. H took this :)_

Sherlock had to have a stern talking-to with Mrs. Hudson.

In the photo, Sherlock was doing his then-nightly routine with Billie, holding her against his chest as he stood by the bedroom window, using the sleeve of his dressing gown and a small blanket. His arm was around her back and his other hand cradled the back of her head, and his mouth was pressed against her hair. His eyes were closed, and they were the picture of serenity. Sherlock still did this with her a few times a week, but John put her to bed now, too, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t want to do this every night.

Sherlock pressed down on the photo with his thumb, and when the option came up, he saved the picture to his phone.

The third one made his face turn crimson with mortification.

The photo looked recent, perhaps a week old. The angle indicated that John was standing over them as he took the picture. Sherlock and Billie were on the floor in the sitting room with various toys scattered about. Sherlock was on his back, one arm flung out and the other curled around Billie, who was clutching his T-shirt and sucking her thumb, her eyes closed, golden lashes settled atop her chubby cheeks. Sherlock was equally dead to the world. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open wide.

Sherlock grimaced at his sleeping face, and then looked at the caption:

_They fell asleep playing together :) Sometimes I think I’m raising two kids. P.S.--they both snore. FYI_

Sherlock marched out of their bedroom and into the sitting room. “John!”

John was sitting in his chair with Billie on his good leg, reading _Green Eggs and Ham_ to her. He looked up with a sunny smile. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“This!” Sherlock held up his phone and pointed to the screen with an accusatory finger.

John’s lips slowly slid into a smirk. “Ah, you’ve read my new blog post. It felt good to post again.”

“What is _this?”_ he waved his arms dramatically.

Billie giggled.

John bit his lip, clearly holding back laughter. “Oh, the pictures? I thought they were sweet. You don’t like them?” he put on a pout. “Hear that, Billie?”

Billie looked at John.

“Daddy doesn’t like your pictures.”

Sherlock spluttered. “Don’t talk such nonsense, John. This,” he pointed at the photos on his phone screen, “this is humiliating. That caption is  _slander!”_

Billie seemed to like how much he was waving his arms, because she started laughing. “Da!”

His anger extinguished for a moment. “Yes, hello, Billie.”

“Oh, did you like the last photo’s caption?” John asked with a shit-eating grin.

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms testily. “As I said: _slander._ I do _not_ do such a thing.”

“As the person who shares a bed with you every night, I disagree. You’re lucky I didn’t post a video.”

He blanched. “There’s a video?”

John laughed heartily. “Oh, stop it, you. I’m just joking; I wouldn’t go that far. Publicly, at least.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“The pictures are adorable, and you know it.”

Sherlock just glared at him, but he wasn’t very angry about the pictures. He was a little embarrassed, yes, but he enjoyed being dramatic about it, just to make John and Billie laugh. In fact, his little outburst launched Billie into a stream of babbles directed at John while she was pointing at Sherlock. John nodded and made encouraging sounds, although neither of them had a clue what she was saying.

But the image of John and Billie in the chair, reading _Green Eggs and Ham,_ made Sherlock smile softly, and his chest fill with liquid warmth, and he felt more confident about his decision.

He was going to propose to John.

It was when John was in the hospital, recovering from Mary’s bullet, that Sherlock realized how short life was, and how he couldn’t take anything for granted. He needed John in his life forever, and Sherlock needed him to know that. He couldn’t waste time hiding any of his feelings anymore. It simply wasn’t worth it. With John, he discovered how fulfilling it was to be free with his emotions, as daunting as that was at times.

He wanted to give John the happy, loving marriage he deserved. He waited until John was pretty much healed up, though, so he was in excellent spirits at the time of the proposal, and didn’t have to attend their wedding with a cane. It was difficult not to propose over the past six months, even though they had a few rows during John’s recovery. John, like most doctors, was a terrible patient, and as soon as he wasn’t in intense pain anymore, he became frustrated and moody because he couldn’t move around or play with Billie down on the floor.

They got agitated with each other at times, especially because of the added responsibility of a baby in their lives. Their sex life was difficult with John’s injury; they had wanted to touch and love each other so badly, but the bullet had not been far off from his groin, and most things hurt him. Sherlock hadn’t really minded not having sex (he did have physical urges, but he was more than willing to hold them off for the sake of John’s comfort), but John did. He had wanted to touch Sherlock, but other than hand jobs and blowjobs, he couldn’t do much without wincing and having to stop. Sherlock tried assuring him that he was really fine (hand jobs and blowjobs were more than enough), but John had felt bad. The moment they could do more without John being in great pain, they tried everything, and switched positions. The memory of John entering him the first time still made him shiver and flush, and the memory of him entering John for the first time made his mouth water.

In the end, they felt closer after it was all over, and to Sherlock, it was proof that their romantic relationship could last through hardships, and marriage was the logical next step.

He was getting ahead of himself. He had to ask first. Sherlock was pretty sure John was going to accept his offer, but that didn’t stop his hands from shaking every time he thought about it, which was a bit of a problem. However, Sherlock had a solution. He knew simple words and gestures from the heart meant more to John than huge, elaborate displays. That was why he was going to propose here, in the flat, in the comfort of their own home.

He needed Billie’s help, and he needed John to leave for a short while.

“We’re out of her sweet potato baby food.”

John glared at him. “Sherlock, I told you to pick more up yesterday.”

“I forgot,” he said. “I can watch her while you go to Tesco.”

He sat up with a sigh, placing Billie on the floor next to his chair. “You’re making me go get it?”

“I’m not _making_ you,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m advising. You need fresh air and exercise. At this final stage of recovery, sitting around will do more harm than good.”

“Fine, fine,” John stood up, stretching. “I guess you’re right. I’m getting a little stir-crazy, to be honest.” He crossed his arms. “I’m still annoyed you forgot to pick up her food.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock kissed his cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” John pushed him away playfully, hiding his grin. “I’ll be back soon.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when John left the flat. He turned to Billie, who was crawling toward her small keyboard on the ground. Sherlock was immensely pleased she appeared to be interested in music, but now was not the time.

“Billie,” he called.

She turned around, sitting on the floor and looking up at him. “Da.”

He kneeled down in front of her. “Daddy needs your help. You’re small, adorable, endearing, and lovable. You need to help me propose to Papa.”

She reached out a little hand and touched his face, and babbled.

“Billie, this is serious. Come with me.” He picked her up and brought her into his and John’s bedroom (now that Mary was gone, Billie had her own room--John’s old room). He set her on the bed and walked to his bureau, opening his sock drawer, the one place John was not allowed to touch. He removed his stack of dark grey socks and retrieved the small box at the bottom of the drawer. He put the socks back and closed the drawer, hand shaking around the small box.

“I’ve been imagining this for months,” he said to Billie, “and yet, look at me.”

She crawled across the bed.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, making sure she didn’t crawl off the mattress. “This may not be very creative, I’ll admit, but Papa will like this, yes?” He shook his head. “Now that I’m about to do it, I’m uncertain.”

She sat next to him, staring at him with parted lips.

He stroked her cheek with his index finger. “You’re blissfully unaware of my torment right now.”

She reached for the box.

“In a moment,” he told her. “I need to do one thing first.” He opened the drawer on the bedside table and took out a pen and notepad. He ripped off a post-it note, and wrote in the neatest penmanship he possibly could: _Marry me? --SH_

He opened up the box, revealing the shiny, but plain silver band inside. He folded the small piece of paper and put it inside the box, and closed the lid.

“Hopefully, he won’t think it’s ridiculous,” he said.

She made a few incoherent sounds.

“When he comes home, I’ll need to you to take this box to him. Understood?”

She just stared at the box.

Sherlock sighed. “We’ll just hope for the best.”

They only had to wait about ten minutes before Sherlock heard the front door downstairs open. His heart leapt into his throat. He picked up Billie, placed her on the ground at the doorway between the bedroom and the kitchen, and put the box in one of her hands. “Go to Papa, Billie,” he told her, trying to sound as happy and friendly as he could when it felt like his heart itself was shaking. “Go to Papa! Go find Papa.”

The words clicked and she started crawling, box secure in her little hand.

Sherlock retreated to the bed and sat, legs folded, on the mattress.

He heard John’s footsteps on the stairs and the front door open.

“Hey, sweetheart,” John greeted Billie. “What do you got, there?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, bracing himself for what was to come.

There was a long pause, perhaps the longest pause of Sherlock’s life. He heard John’s footsteps retreat down the stairs.

Sherlock’s heart sunk, but he was confused, too. Even if he didn’t want to be around Sherlock right now, John wouldn’t just leave Billie sitting alone on the kitchen floor. Sherlock would have gotten up to see what was going on, but he was sure his legs would have given out if he stood up.

But then, John’s footsteps returned, and came closer this time.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry guys, it'll be fluffy smut time in the last chapter :)


	14. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gives him an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man, this is really it! My heart feels heavy as I type this. I really loved writing this story :(  
> I'm going to miss this little family, but alas, I can't write them forever.

John was standing in the doorway, opened box in his left hand, the ring still inside. His lips were parted, and his mouth looked like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to beam or gape in shock. His eyes were bright and shimmering, but dry.

John blinked and swallowed hard. “Sherlock, you...Really?”

Sherlock’s throat felt like the desert. “I...Yes. Where’s Billie?”

“I gave her to Mrs. Hudson for a bit,” he said, walking to the bed, looking down at his feet. He stood in front of Sherlock, apprehension painted across his face. “You’re serious?”

That wasn’t really the response Sherlock had wanted. “I’m absolutely serious,” he said, almost feeling offended that John would ask such a question.

John’s eyes flickered down to the ring in the box. “You really are,” he said, more so to himself.

“John,” Sherlock sat on his knees on the bed, “why wouldn’t I be serious? Why would I joke about such a thing?”

His mouth twisted. “You did with Janine.”

Oh. Sherlock had honestly forgotten about that. Even so, he was surprised that incident was apparently filling John with apprehension. Janine was different Janine wasn’t John. “John,” Sherlock grasped his shoulder, “you are not Janine. This isn’t a tactic for a case, this is…” His heart felt heavy. The only thing that kept him from despair was that it looked like John was in genuine disbelief, and not any sort of disgust. He wasn’t displaying signs of rejection, either. _(Please don’t say no.)_ “I wouldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t.” It was crucial that John understood. “When you were in the hospital, right after Mary shot you, I looked at you in the bed, unconscious, an IV in your arm, and it truly hit me how I nearly lost you. I would think of you, before the ambulance arrived, alone, wounded, and bleeding, and I would feel physically _ill_. Life is short, John.”

John blinked rapidly, breathing deeply.

Sherlock gulped, removing his hand from John’s shoulder slowly, folding both hands on his lap meekly. “We spent years concealing everything. I don’t want to do that anymore, not after everything that’s happened.” His palms were sweating. “I want you to know how much I love you.”

John’s jaw clenched, and his lower lip quivered ever so slightly.

Sherlock looked directly into his eyes. “That’s why I want to marry you, John.” They stared at each other in silence, the air in the room suddenly feeling oppressive and stuffy. “However,” his eyes lowered, “if you don’t want--”

John cupped Sherlock’s jaw roughly and smashed their lips together, making Sherlock gasp. John quickly pulled back, though, and hugged him tightly, arms around his neck. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have doubted you, it wasn’t fair. I just couldn’t believe you’d want to marry me, after all…”

“All what?” Sherlock asked.

“Me being a dick when I was recovering,” he said, sounding miserable and guilty.

“No, John,” Sherlock gently grabbed his shoulders again and pulled him back. “You’re not a very good patient, I’ll give you that, but did you honestly think I would be angry at you because you were upset and injured?”

John had a watery smile. “I guess I sound like a bit of a prat when you put it like that.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock joked lightly, although he wasn’t calm yet. John still didn’t give him an answer. He grew serious. “You couldn’t stop me from wanting to marry you even if you tried, John. You are--of utmost importance to me.” He felt heat consume his neck. “You don’t just own my heart, John: you saved it.”

John brought a hand to his mouth, giggling into his palm giddily, two tears leaving his eyes.

This was a good reaction. Sherlock allowed himself to hope and beam brightly. “You haven’t given me an answer, you know.”

“Yes,” John nodded, removing his hand from his mouth, revealing a dazzling smile. “Yes, of course I’ll bloody marry you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock threw himself on John in relief, hugging him, and since he was still kneeling on the bed, his face was smashed against John’s jumper-clad chest.

John giggled and ruffled Sherlock’s hair playfully. “I can’t believe you made Billie propose for you. You’re mad.”

“But it worked,” he said into John’s jumper.

“It did. I was shocked at the time, but it was pretty adorable. _You’re_ adorable.”

Sherlock grumbled, because he always did when John called him that, and he sat up straight. “I believe the tradition is for me to put the ring on you?”

“Then be a gentleman and follow tradition,” John held out the box, his hand shaking slightly.

Sherlock took out the silver band, set the box down on the edge of the mattress, and slowly slid the ring onto John’s left ring finger. He was so happy he felt like he could cry. “Kiss me, John.”

John kissed him, his lips warm and welcoming, hands cupping his face.

Sherlock felt the cool metal of the ring on his skin and he whined, deepening the kiss, needing John _now._ He just had confirmation John wanted to be with him forever. And be legally binded together. “Let me touch you, John,” he said into the kiss. “Please.”

“Fuck, yeah,” John said, pushing Sherlock onto the bed. “Why do you think I gave Billie to Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock smirked. “Planned ahead. Smart.” His eyes caught sight of the ring on John’s finger, and a lump formed in his throat.

John leaned down and kissed him, climbing on top of him. “Stop crying, Sherlock, or you’ll get me started again.”

“I want you,” he murmured, nuzzling kisses into his temple, the feeling of John’s muscular thighs and hips against his, igniting a flame in his groin. He wrapped his arms around John’s waist and tugged him onto the bed, next to him. He kissed John slowly, but with heat, their lips sliding, Sherlock tentatively sucking his bottom lip. Sherlock kissed him deeper, subconsciously leaning his body forward, wanting to press himself against John. He wanted to be close to him, to be connected. He wanted John inside of him, or to be inside of John. He didn’t care at this point. Either way would work. He just needed to be connected.

John moaned into the kiss, and Sherlock realized that he had John on his back, grinding against him, and his tongue was in his mouth. When did that happen? Oh well, John was enjoying it--they were both hard. No, they couldn’t get wrapped up doing this. He needed more. “What do you want, John?” he asked, moving his lips to latch onto John’s stubbled jaw. He loved John’s prickly stubble on his lips; it never failed to make him shiver and tremble.

“Mmm, dunno. Anything,” John said, voice turning deliciously low and husky.

“We’re at an impasse,” Sherlock nibbled his earlobe. “I have no preference.”

John’s hips squirmed beneath his. “Mmm, you’re enjoying climbing on top of me today.”

“I want you,” Sherlock sucked the spot just below his ear, the spot that always made John’s breath hitch.

It worked. His breath hitched, “Fuck, Sherlock. I know what you want, and I want it, too. I--I want one--specific thing.”

Sherlock knew John was asking to be on the bottom. If he wanted to fuck Sherlock, he just outright said it, but when it was the other way around, he grew more subtle, almost sheepish, although John rarely got sheepish. Sherlock suspected that it was because, before their relationship, John had always taken the “dominant” role, but Sherlock didn’t think either of them was more dominant or submissive than the other. They were on the same level, and some nights, Sherlock really needed to be coddled, and other nights, John really needed it. Some nights, they both needed to cling to each other, or they both needed to be rough.

Sherlock had never been in a relationship before John, so he didn’t have to adjust to any change of pace with being in what was considered the more dominant or submissive role. John did. However, Sherlock suspected that John’s shyness around this act was more so due to him feeling vulnerable, and having trust issues. If Sherlock really thought about it, he was very pleased and almost honored that John trusted him enough to do this.

He would never voice any of this aloud, though. “Yes?” Sherlock asked, his lips brushing John’s ear. He kept pressing small kisses to his neck and jaw, knowing making eye contact would increase John’s bashfulness with requesting this.

“On my side,” John said, clearing his throat, “with you behind me. Know what--?”

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock kissed his lips firmly. “Yes, we can do that. Your leg--”

“Is fine,” John smiled. “We’ve done this before. I’ll just have the bad leg on top.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” He smiled. “I love you.”

“All right,” Sherlock smiled back and, his stomach fluttering with anticipation. “All right.” He reached over John to the bedside table and opened the drawer.

“Do you always have to get everything ahead of time?”

“I don’t want to stop in the middle of things to get lubricant, John,” he said, bringing the bottle to the side of the bed.

“Fair enough,” John said, smirking slowly. “Or are you stalling?” He licked his lips teasingly. “You nervous?”

Sherlock wasn’t, but seeing John laying on his back, hands by his head, pliant and open and licking his lips, turned his face red and he maybe felt the smallest bit of nerves. “Don’t be silly,” he muttered and kissed him, licking the seam of John’s lips. John’s hand reached up and tangled in the curls at Sherlock’s nape, tugging lightly, grinding their growing bulges together, hooking his ankle over Sherlock’s calf. Their hips rocked together, the warm friction of their clothed hardness making their breath grow faster, and long kisses turning shorter, harder, the liquid heat in Sherlock’s abdomen traveling down to his groin, turning him harder, more eager. His hand explored and went under John’s jumper, smoothing over his toned chest and nipples. He pulled up John’s jumper, and they broke the kiss briefly to remove it, throwing the jumper on the floor.

“C’mere,” John murmured, pulling him down by his shirt collar and going back to kissing him. Sherlock’s hand resumed its exploration, reaching down to feel John’s erection. He felt close to full hardness already. He didn’t like to keep John waiting. He unzipped John’s jeans, and he felt John’s hands unbutton his dress shirt. They never took their time undressing each other. Sherlock knew that was supposed to be a sensual part of foreplay, but he thought that simply wasted time, and he was glad John agreed.

Once they were naked, Sherlock took a moment to let his eyes roam over John’s body. John’s hair was mussed and a gorgeous blush was blooming across his cheeks and ears. He was looking up at Sherlock with all of the trust in the world, legs bent at the knees and spread apart, cock hard against his stomach. He looked _divine_. If he didn’t have other things in mind, he would have just sucked John off, then and there. Sherlock’s eye caught the silver ring on John’s finger, and he felt like his breath was stolen from his very lungs.

John’s red, slightly swollen lips pulled up in a warm, soft smile. “Okay, Sherlock?”

“I’m more than okay,” he said, voice leaving his lips like velvet. He kissed John soundly and fumbled blindly for the bottle of lube on the bed. He found it and uncapped the lid with his thumb. John’s hand cupped his jaw, and Sherlock felt the ring again. His throat tightened. Would he ever get used to that feeling? His hand wrapped around John’s length and stroked lightly, only a tease, and his own cock throbbed at the sound of John’s throaty moan. His thumb rubbed over the tip and he started kissing John’s neck, wanting to feel the vibrations of his moans and groans on his lips. He pressed deep kisses to the side of his neck, nipping as he stroked John a little harder, the skin hot and rock solid beneath his palm. His lips latched onto John’s Adam’s apple, lips tingling with John’s grunt. He looked up to find John’s brow creased and his lips parted with pleasure. Sherlock felt a low, quiet growl rumble in his chest and he bit the side of John’s neck, and tugged gently on his sack.

John choked out a moan, and Sherlock took the opportunity to squeeze a glob of lube on his fingertips. His index finger circled around John’s entrance, the fuzzy, dark blond hair smoothing under his wet fingertip. Still pressing wet kisses to his neck, Sherlock gently slid his finger inside of John’s hot, tight hole.

John let out a small whimper, tossing his head to the side, his fingers clenching in the duvet.

Sherlock’s head shot up in alarm, finger stilling. “Did I--?”

“No, no, keep going,” John protested. “It feels good.”

Sherlock’s muscles relaxed in relief, and he began to press gentle kisses to John’s ear, wanting to offer him comfort in contrast to his prodding fingers. He worked his finger inside of John, shivering at the knowledge that his length would be inside of him soon, the thought alone bringing him to full hardness. He moved his finger in and out a few times, slowly, and when he felt no resistance, he pushed a second finger in. John groaned deeply as Sherlock spread his fingers apart, stretching John, and he kissed him when John's eyes screwed shut. He slid his fingers out and in several times, John’s inner walls warm against his fingers and slowly beginning to relax. He wanted to ensure he would not hurt John later on.

John bit his lower lip, a shallow breath shuddering from his chest. “I’m fine,” he panted into Sherlock’s ear, “come on.”

“It’s been awhile,” Sherlock said into his skin, sucking his collarbone. He thrust his fingers in and out steadily.

John’s hips bucked up and he threw the back of his hand over his mouth, fingers balling into a fist, biting the skin, muffling a broken moan. His hand wrapped around his dick, but Sherlock took it away. “You’ll come.”

John groaned in frustration. “Then get in me. You won’t hurt me, and if you do, I’ll say so.”

When John decided to be in this position, he tended to become rather bossy. Sherlock liked it. “Okay,” Sherlock agreed, sliding his fingers out gently. He was secretly pleased, because his own arousal was now borderline painful. “Roll on your side?”

John nodded, a flash of tentativeness in his eyes.

Sherlock couldn’t hold back a moan as he lubricated his cock, and he lay down on his side behind John, nudging his tip against the swell of his buttocks. He hooked his leg over John’s hip.

“How’s your leg?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” John said, turning his head and capturing Sherlock’s lips. “Please, Sherlock, I want to be close to you,” his whispered, voice dripping with lust.

Sherlock swallowed and he nodded curtly. He nudged his prick against John’s entrance, slowly entering him, and Sherlock’s mouth dropped open when his tip was engulfed by heat. Sherlock pressed the front of his body against his back, wrapping his arms around his torso, hugging him from behind as his cock went deeper into John.

John inhaled deeply, grabbing the pillow, clenching around Sherlock. “Ohhh, _fuck_.”

Sherlock buried his face into John’s shoulder, hips rocking on their own accord. He forgot how fucking amazing it felt to do it this way, being utterly consumed by tight, intense heat. He trembled and moaned, holding John against his chest, his heart beating heavily.

John gave a muffled groan and said, “Move.”

Sherlock thrust gently so he was fully seated inside of John, slid out until only the tip remained, and slid back in, causing them both to moan and quiver. Pulses of pleasures cascaded down his body, causing his toes to clench. He held John and thrust steadily, each snap of his hips eliciting panting from John.

“Feels so fuckin’ good, Sherlock,” he turned his head and tried to kiss him.

Sherlock lifted his head and found his lips, moaning into his mouth, the all-encompassing heat and tightness of John rendering him speechless. The movements of his hips rocked them forward and backward, the mattress squeaking under their weight. Sherlock let out a soft cry into John’s mouth when he shifted his hips and changed the angle slightly, delving even deeper into John. The warm velvet bliss made Sherlock thrust harder, the primal instincts he had fought so valiantly for years breaking through and taking over.

John gasped and rolled his head on the pillow, hand scrambling to grab Sherlock’s.

Sherlock held John closer and smeared kisses along his broad shoulder, an overwhelming bubble of lust and adoration threatening to explode, and his chest felt too tight. His eyes shot open and he cried out. “ _John,”_ he pleaded into his ear. “John, it’s too much.”

John turned his head and kissed his forehead. “Take your time,” he said shakily, clearly trying to keep it together. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I love you.”

Beautiful John, always wanting to care for him, neglecting his own needs. No, Sherlock needed to pull himself together. He looked over John’s shoulder and saw his erection, hard and red and dripping. He needed to please John, but he needed to stop for a short moment, or else he would scream.

John’s chest heaved beneath his hands. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he babbled, “you’re okay. Just breathe, beautiful man.”

Sherlock’s heart soared. He inhaled a deep, unsteady breath and resumed his thrusting, kissing the back of John’s neck.

John let out an _uhhh_ and started to stroke himself in time with Sherlock’s thrusts.

Sherlock should have done that for him, but he couldn’t stop hugging John. He needed to hold him. He needed to be grounded back to earth. He needed to hold John close and love him with every fiber of his being.

“Sherlock, faster” John said roughly. “I think I’m close.”

 _Thank god._ Sherlock let his hips snap and fuck John with short, deep thrusts, his balls drawing up. He bit John’s shoulder, growling as he felt his climax building.

John gasped and his back arched. “Sherlock! Christ, Sherlock, you’re amazing,” he moaned, eyes screwing shut and hard breaths punching form his chests. “Let go, Sherlock. Come on, you can do it.”

John’s praise and encouragement were enough for Sherlock’s climax to bloom throughout his body, his hips snapping and cock spurting, his arms tightening around John, his long, deep cry buried into his shoulder.

The force of his climax made John groan, “Sher--!” he shouted. He came, muscles contracting and squeezing around Sherlock, prolonging his orgasm, making Sherlock see white. His thrusts were quick and erratic as he rode out his orgasm, letting himself be taken over by every spasm of pleasure. His hips slowed to a halt when he began to soften, and they lay there for a moment, catching their breath. Sherlock nuzzled the back of John’s neck with kisses and then pulled out, flopping onto his back, breathing hard, his eyes closed. He had forgotten how intense it was to be inside of John. His body felt like pudding. He felt fingers brush his damp fringe off his forehead, and he opened his eyes.

John had rolled over to face him, and he looked radiant: hair a mess, eyes soft and sleepy, neck red where Sherlock’s teeth had been, semen spurted on his lower abdomen. “Hey, you.”

“Hey,” Sherlock said with a drowsy smile. “Are you all right?”

“I’m perfect,” John said, voice rough from moaning and shouting. He crawled closer and buried his face into Sherlock’s pale shoulder. “That was bloody incredible. I love when you let go like that.”

Sherlock flushed, grinning, although he was still unsure how to respond to direct praise like that. John yawned and shifted closer, his hand resting on Sherlock’s chest, over his heart.

The ring rested over his heart.

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head, the lump in his throat preventing him from speaking.

They lay in silence for a couple minutes, savoring each other’s company, until John murmured, into his skin, “I really love you.”

“I really love _you,”_ Sherlock said. “I should hope you love me, saying yes.”

John chuckled lowly. “I’m trying to say something profound here. You know that doesn’t happen often,” he joked.

Sherlock smirked. John had admitted he found emotional declarations difficult years ago, but since they got together, he opened up more with his feelings. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

John looked up at him, eyes dark and warm in the low light of their bedroom, a smile playing at his lips. “I think I’ve always loved you. I was always drawn to you, definitely, but now, I feel like I really know you. I didn’t think I ever would. I didn’t think I was smart enough to keep up with your brain, though I’ll admit I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand how your brain works. But, I know you, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been with you, happier than I was in the beginning, before all of the Moriarty mess. Not just because of this,” he waved his hand, gesturing to their lovemaking, “but because I love _you,_ as a person, and I feel bloody lucky to be loved by you, and be allowed to love you.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, mouth opening, but sound refused to come out.

John dazzled him with a toothy smile. “You’re so cute,” he kissed the tip of his nose.

Sherlock swallowed. “John. You do. You do know me. No one else does. I--John.”

John carded his fingers through his curls, caressing the damp locks. “And no one else knows me but you.”

If Sherlock didn’t make a small joke right this instant, his heart would burst. “I think Billie knows us.”

John giggled. “I think she does, yeah.” He sighed happily. “Our wedding is going to be bloody fantastic.”

“Better than the last one?” he raised an eyebrow playfully.

“Much better than the last one. I don’t think I want a big affair again.”

“I don’t want that, either. A small ceremony.”

“With your parents.”

Sherlock grumbled.

“They’re coming, Sherlock,” he insisted.

“Fine. Harry?”

“If she’s sober. She says she’s making an effort, because she wants to meet Billie.”

“I see. Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, absolutely. I think she’ll cry when we tell her about our engagement.”

“You didn’t tell her?”

“No,” John twisted a curl with his finger. “I told her I needed to have a serious discussion with you when I dropped off Billie.”

“I am curious to see her reaction.”

“We’ll tell her when we get Billie, which should probably be soon. I did just spring it on her.”

“In a few minutes,” Sherlock said, eyelids feeling heavy from the aftermath of his climax and John petting his hair.

“We’ll put Billie in a dress.”

“She can be the flower girl.”

John snorted. “She’d have to be able to walk to do that.”

“She should start walking soon.”

“It’ll be months, Sherlock.”

He shrugged. “We’ll work it out. When do you want to have the wedding?”

John yawned. “I don’t know. I don’t want to wait long, but not right away. Maybe...three months? Even if we’re not going all out, we have some planning to do.”

“Sounds fine to me.” He could hardly believe he was having this conversation. “I want to wear a ring,” he said. He wanted everyone to know that he would be married to John. “But, our line of works prevents us from getting something too extravagant.”

“Eh, that’s okay. While this _is_ lovely,” John wiggled his left ring finger in front of Sherlock’s face for emphasis, “I don’t need something fancy.”

Sherlock nodded sleepily and buried his nose in John’s damp hair, a tiny grin on his lips. “We’re going to get married,” he murmured happily.

“We are, Sherlock.” He gave a soft laugh. “We really are.”

They must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Sherlock was awakened by a stream of sunlight from the sunset hitting his eye. He groaned and turned on his side, accidentally waking John in the process.

John grumbled and rubbed his eyes with his knuckle.

“Sorry,” Sherlock pouted, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” he said, voice scratchy from sleep. He looked down at himself and grimaced. “Fuck, I’m disgusting. I forgot to get a damn flannel.”

“I should have,” Sherlock berated himself, “you shouldn’t have had to get up. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes. “Just because you fucked me doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have to walk again for the rest of the day.”

Sherlock colored. “Well…”

John kissed his cheekbone. “You’re ridiculous. I need a shower. You should join me.”

Sherlock’s interest immediately piqued. “Oh?”

“Yeah, you smell like sex.”

He deflated. “Oh.”

John sniggered. “I’m teasing, Sherlock. Come on.”

They went in the shower and kissed tenderly under the stream of water, absentmindedly washing each other with a soapy washcloth, until the droplets turned icy, making them yelp and jump out, laughing.

“I don’t know how much cleaner we got,” John said as he handed Sherlock a towel.

“We’re perfectly fine,” he said, drying off his body, staring at John’s naked, wet body and not bothering to be subtle about it. He felt a little self-consciousness when his penis twitched.

John saw it and raised his eyebrows, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Really?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, drying his hair, “we were just kissing each other while nude.”

“I’m aware.” He bit his lip, still grinning. “Your hair’s all fluffy.”

He looked in the mirror. He looked like a dandelion. “Shut up, John.”

John walked over and ruffled his hair with both of his hands, letting the towel fall to the floor.

“Hey!” Sherlock pushed his hands away.

John laughed giddily. “You have no idea how perfect you look right now. I wish I could have a picture.”

Sherlock threw his towel at John. “You’ve taken enough pictures of me.”

“Shush. Listen, it’s getting late. Why don’t you order food while I go get Billie?”

“Okay. How about pizza?”

“Extra cheese?”

“As always.”

“Sounds great.”

 

Later, after their pizza was eaten and Billie’s last bottle had been drunk and she had been bathed, Sherlock and John sat snuggled in their bed, clad in pajamas, along with Billie, who wore fuzzy, purple footie-pajamas with a green frog pattern. They didn’t let her sleep in their bed, because they knew she had to get used to sleeping on her own, and they would never forgive themselves if she was crushed by one of them in the middle of the night, but for right now, they wanted to sit together as a family. It was a special night. John didn’t tell Mrs. Hudson, not yet. They would in the morning, together. For right now, they wanted to enjoy being in their own little bubble.

Sherlock had his arm around John and Billie, pretending to read something on the computer on his lap, but he was simply enjoying their company. John was curled up against his side, leaning down a little, head pillowed on his shoulder. He held Billie, rubbing her back as she sucked her thumb.

“She’s got to stop doing that,” John murmured. “Bad habit.”

“I’ll only worry if she still does that with her adult teeth. At the moment, she has no teeth.” He clicked on a webpage to appear like he was actually reading.

“I guess.” A pause.  “She’s going to be beautiful in a little white dress.”

“Of course she will. She’s a beautiful baby.”

John’s smile was as warm as the sun. “She is.” He shook his head. “One day, she’ll be in a white dress for a wedding again, but not ours.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched. “John, that’s years from now.” He couldn’t think about some imbecile coming and taking his little girl away.

“Whoever her spouse will be, they’ll have to deal with us,” John said.

Sherlock snorted. “What an unlucky person.”

“You’ve got that right. But, for now, she’s ours. You going to shut the computer or keep pretending to read?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and gave up the act, closing his laptop and putting it on the floor. He said nothing and turned on his side, placing a chaste kiss on John’s neck and resting his head on his shoulder. He gently caressed Billie’s hair, which looked like a deep gold from the lamplight. She didn’t respond, eyes closed, thumb in her mouth.

“When will you take her to bed?” he asked. “She’s already out.”

“I know. Just, in a little while.” He rested his cheek atop of Sherlock’s head. “I want to sit with both of you.”

Sherlock pulled the duvet up, yawning. “M’kay.”

John smiled into his hair.

Sherlock’s eyes slid closed, and his chest felt warm. He couldn’t be more peaceful; he was cuddling (though he wouldn’t use that word out loud) with his John, his fiancé, with no troubles on his mind. His fiancé was safe and happy. His daughter was safe and happy. What more could he want?

Memories of Mary were beginning to fade, slowly but surely. The scars would always be there, but that didn’t mean they had to be noticeable. The past few years since he had to jump were the most taxing of Sherlock’s life, especially the last year or so with Mary’s torment and sorting out the legal business with her death.

But, this was the reward: a loving family.

John whispered to Billie, “Come on, darling. Papa’s got to take you to bed.”

Sherlock, mind pleasantly sluggish with peace and drowsiness, got off John and burrowed into his pillow, sighing in contentment. He dozed off, and woke up when John climbed into bed, wrapping an arm around him.

He hummed happily in his chest.

John kissed the back of his neck. “I love you…fiancé.”

“I love you, too, fiancé,” he mumbled, the corners of his lips tugging up.

John’s breath left his lips in a small sigh, warm on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Can’t wait to call you my husband.”

Sherlock would have beamed if he weren’t so tired. “Me, too,” he said, words like molasses on his tongue.

John settled behind him. “Soon enough. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

They slept soundly, no worries of plaguing their minds. They were in love. They were all safe. They were all happy.

They were just fine, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT, FOLKS.  
> Fuck, man, this was fun. Thank you all SO MUCH for your support. This story is over 60,000 words--I've never written that much! I couldn't have done it without your kudos and comments. You guys made me feel inspired.  
> Thank you thank you thank you <3  
> I would love to write another story, but...I don't know what to do. If any of you have suggestions, please stop by my tumblr :)


End file.
